


The Spider Web

by WriterLati



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Batman - Freeform, Batman References, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, College, College Student, Crime Fighting, Crimes & Criminals, Drama, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Female Protagonist, Gotham City - Freeform, Gotham City Police Department, Gotham State University, Gotham University, Horror, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Organized Crime, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, POV Female Character, Partners in Crime, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Scarecrow - Freeform, Secrets, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Strong Female Characters, Suspense, The Dark Knight - Freeform, The Scarecrow - Freeform, Trauma, comic book, dahlia rhodes, movieverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:28:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 26
Words: 36,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22440322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterLati/pseuds/WriterLati
Summary: GSU student Dahlia Rhodes develops an imbalanced relationship with Professor Jonathan Crane to cope with her traumas. But the professor's not forthcoming with his true intentions, and has much grander plans in mind.[[ This story explores the origins of the movieverse Scarecrow in which Jonathan Crane pursues his original profession. Although Gotham and the Scarecrow are heavy themes, I've attempted to write this in such a way that anyone could enjoy it without knowing the original source material. ]]
Relationships: Jonathan Crane & Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 20





	1. In which the weak are smote

**Author's Note:**

> This is still a work in progress, and is being cross-published to FanFiction.net and Inkitt. The story was completely finished as of 15 years ago, but I'm doing massive re-edits for my more modern sensibilities. Hope you enjoy!

“So the witch returns.”

Your absurdly typical college clique-branded jock. He lifted his palms in a mock gesture of fright, looking towards Dahlia with a lopsided grin. The others joined in, leaning back with their hands out, feigning fear briefly before obnoxious giggling spread across them. Dahlia just kept her head down, clutched her books to her chest, and continued swiftly towards class.

“Please, don’t cast a spell on me!”

“Burn the witch!”

This particular brand of mockery was old news. It was well into her second semester at Gotham State University, and every day was the same damn routine. The sting became tolerable in that time.

Feeling something warm rising behind her cheeks, Dahlia barged into the girls’ restrooms and slammed her books onto the sink counter, and met her reflection’s gaze. A tightly-balled fist then lifted and ran firmly over her cheek, brushing her tousled black hair from her face as she fought to suppress the wetness forming in her eyes.

Some days were better than others. She figured today wasn’t that day. Although unknown to her still, today was  _ precisely _ that latter kind of day.

* * *

As cold and sun-avoidant as Gotham was, Dahlia’s genetic makeup was oddly uncommon: Pale skin, jet black hair, a petite and somewhat gangly physique, and half a fashion sense picked out of thrift shop that apparently catered to Victorian-era boho-chic goths. The most common nicknames forced upon her by her peers were, naturally: Witch. Vamp. Emo. And, on occasion, Geek. Not that she - like many - took much offense to the last one. Really it was a compliment towards her excellence in academics, and perhaps a nod to her worn out old eye glasses.

Regardless, it was all just mockery to lower her self worth and let her know who the alphas were. Like animals.

“Oh, here you are.”

Out came Natalie Odell from a closed stall behind Dahlia. Another run-of-the-mill popular plastic princess. Pretty, rumored promiscuous, blessed with the genetic configuration that endowed her with a male-approved bosom and flowing blonde hair. 

She adjusted her overpriced purse as she approached Dahlia, walking nonchalantly past her to the hand soap nearby.

“If you’re going to finally end it all and slit your wrists, just do it over the sink so you don’t make a mess.” Natalie vaguely washed her hands, turned off the tap, then approached the electric hand dryer, which switched on loudly. She shouted over the blower, “Don’t let me discourage you though. Everyone’s got to have goals, right?” Her bright pink lips briefly formed a half smirk before falling into a disgusted frown. 

Removing her hands from the dryer, which then shut off, Natalie walked out as she added: “Have fun with your magic spells and voodoo dolls.”

Dahlia watched the door for several moments, suppressing her confusion and rage as the tensed muscles in her face began to twitch. Did these egomaniacs have nothing better to do with their time? Wasn’t civilization finally past petty bullying? A prestigious degree apparently can’t outrun inner city dramatics.

She left the bathroom quickly.

* * *

The first of her classes for the day passed quickly, and with relative peace. Someone in Writing 102 decided to “forget” returning one of her favorite mechanical pencils that she so generously lent out, but that was about the brunt of it.

Later in the day, in Psychology 102, Professor Crane was lecturing, as usual. And Dahlia was taking notes and listening intently, as usual. Not that she particularly disliked her other classes, but something about Psych 102 was particularly intriguing. Learning more about the human psyche, what makes a person tick, what makes a person feel satisfied 

... Maybe it was having a well-spoken and well educated instructor?  _ Details _ . It was regardless her favorite.

Natalie had come to favor picking a seat right next to Dahlia. She decided to get a little more personal. Boy, she was of a mood today.

Without hesitation, she turned her head towards Dahlia - right in the middle of the lecture - and snatched the glasses right off Dahlia’s face. Dahlia was completely taken aback, eyes widening as she turned slowly to her enemy. Natalie held the glasses by the bridge, pinched between two fingers, as if holding a twitching spider. She whispered, “These are the ugliest damn things I’ve ever seen. Are you just a bum or can your family really not afford nicer frames or something?”

For one reason or another, this had become Dahlia’s last straw.

She snatched the glasses back, every bit as roughly as she intended, and responded with her voice low and gritty. “If you  _ ever _ touch me again, I swear I will make sure it’s the last you damned stuck up  _ skank _ .”

Natalie stared right back. Her eyes reflected surprise, but her facial expression reflected Dahlia’s anger. Although her volume was still low, her whisper had dissipated. Natalie replied, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Dahlia’s voice escalated further in volume. ” **Taunt the bull and see what happens-** "

" **_Miss Rhodes._ ** "

With a snap, Dahlia’s head pivoted to the front of the lecture hall, eyes wide and rounded, classic deer in headlights. Professor Crane was staring at her with his unblinking, intensely blue eyes. For a moment he remained silent, then adjusted his square-framed glasses with two fingers, adding in his calm voice, “Do you have something to share with your colleagues on the current material?” For what seemed like hours, Dahlia just kept staring, her mouth trying to form words with no sound emerging from her throat. Timidly, defeatedly, she simply shook her head, her unblinking eyes glossening with moisture. Crane’s head remained still as he glanced to Natalie, locking eyes for several more moments, before returning to the open book in his hands and continuing the lecture.

  
  


* * *

“Miss Rhodes.”

Dahlia cringed as she paused mid step, watching her classmates exit the lecture hall. Slowly she turned to face her teacher.

He was situated perhaps six feet behind her, with his hands clasped comfortably, one over the other, in front of his body. “I assume, as usual, you’ve studied and prepared for the exam tomorrow.”

_ Well, no. _ She in actuality had  _ completely _ forgotten. Taking in a silent breath, Dahlia nodded with a poor attempt at feigning confidence, her eyes remaining glued to the elegant wood grain of the floor. The Professor continued: “I’d advise you to take advantage of the school library’s late operating hours, in that case.” Another pause. “Your slow decline in grades and project quality hasn’t gone unnoticed. It’s unlike you, and unbecoming of you.”

Dahlia’s eyes finally met his, her mouth immediately opening, urging an excuse to quickly come to mind. A few seconds later and she shrugged to herself with a sigh. “Yes sir, I-I know. I don’t ...” She had no idea what to say. ′ _ I’m probably distracted by my inability to handle my school bullies? _ ′ That didn’t seem like something Crane would really care about. Teachers never wanted to get involved.

Another awkward pause and Dahlia added, breaking the silence, “I’ll take you up on that advice now. Thank you, sir.” Refusing him the opportunity to respond, she hurriedly ducked away and jogged out of the room, boots smacking the hard floor with purpose.

For just a few moments, Professor Crane stood watching her darkly clad figure hurry down the hall, her heavy footsteps echoing more and more quietly. He shut the door and disappeared from the window’s view.

* * *

_ ′ The notion of the reflex arc was developed in studies of spinal preparations in which protopathic stimuli or muscle tensions are the chief sources of excitation. Under these simple conditions something like a point for points correspondence between receptor cells and muscle groups could be demonstrated, as in the case of the scratch reflex. ′ _

“Dahlia! ...  _ Dahlia _ !”

" _ Eh?! _ "

Dahlia’s eyes rose from her book to see the face of the school’s librarian looming down over her. She smiled warmly. “The library’s closing, Dear. Got everything you need, I hope. Otherwise we’re open again tomorrow of course.”

Not quite, but good enough, she guessed. The hours Dahlia spent in the school library were a shameful waste. She was completely sidetracked from notes and class books to unrelated material. Fascinating nonetheless, but completely unrelated to her class material. Tomorrow’s exam was going to suck.

Outside, the sky over Gotham was dimly starry and black, with a new moon gracing the horizon. Dahlia held her books under one arm as her other held her warm wool coat shut. Halfway through her walk across the parking lot, something rattled in the darkness. Startled, but not yet concerned, she slowed her pace and looked towards the source of the noise amid the buildings. Nothing. Then she turned her head and glanced over her opposite shoulder, carefully watching the shadows. Still nothing. Could never be too careful in the middle of the city.

“You are such a bitch.”

Suddenly wary, Dahlia stopped and looked forward to see two figures emerge from a parked pickup truck, both heading for her at a threatening speed. Eyes widening, feeling her entire body tense, she muttered resistance as she stumbled backwards and bumped into something soft. Large, muscular arms hooked under hers and lifted her to the tips of her toes, dropping her belongings to the cold pavement. The terrified shriek that escaped her was stifled as another figure moved in front of her and pulled a line of duct tape over her mouth.

Who other than Natalie? In shock, Dahlia locked eyes with the blonde: Natalie’s eyes reflected only anger, and Dahlia’s reflected something she had yet to experience with such shock and intensity:

Raw fear.

After a beat, Natalie raised her arm and brought her hand across Dahlia’s cheek, firmly, as a sickening smack echoed across the parking lot. Another beat later, and Natalie slapped her again, several more times. Dahlia’s eyes squeezed shut, feeling briefly faint with each strike.

Natalie took a moment to calm herself before spewing, “Don’t think that you can say whatever you want to me and not have it come back to haunt you, you goddamn crazy whore. If you ever think you can be better than me, you better remember this night and think twice. I am  _ everywhere _ . How’s  _ that _ for a threat, huh bitch?” Her skinny hand slapped over Dahlia’s neck, tightening every moment. “So long as you go to this school, I own you and everyone here. Got it?”

Dahlia didn’t respond, eyes still shut, wishing for this moment to be a nightmare she’d soon wake up out of.

Natalie let her go, after what seemed like several minutes. With a wave of her hand, the individual holding Dahlia suddenly dropped his arms and shoved her forward and into the nearby car. Just as quickly as they had appeared, they disappeared, back into the truck, and drove away.

Dahlia wept furiously on her knees, slumped against the car, as she weakly stripped the tape from her mouth.

* * *

The apartment on the third floor wasn’t really all that bad, at least when maintenance got the pest control under ... well, control. And when the heaters actually worked. And when the water was turned on. And when the wallpaper peeled off in even increments. Really when one considered how scummy Gotham’s streets were, especially the gang and drug trafficking in The Narrows, it was a palace.

Dahlia trudged up the stairs, face beaten down with exhaustion, and entered her apartment quietly and with hesitation. She had hoped that her drunken stepmother, Linda, wasn’t up and about; so naturally, she was. Linda was the type of woman you could look at and know, without a question of a doubt, that she had been to jail more than once. She was only in her early forties but looked old enough to be Dahlia’s young-ish grandmother. Without a hint of grandmotherly love, Linda sauntered up to the door as Dahlia entered and crowed, “Dahlia, where the hell have you been all night? I needed you here to help clean up the mess in the kitchen!”

Normally Dahlia would have the patience to at least feign sincerity with Linda. Yet coldly, she replied, “I had my own problems to deal with. And since when do you clean anything?”

Linda’s drug-addled brain didn’t hear a word her stepdaughter said. “I left you the dishes and mopping the floor, and if you ask me, I went easy on you. Maybe next time I’ll give you the toilet and the p-trap in the sink ...

"... Hey!”

Dahlia slammed the door shut to her small bedroom, and promptly locked it from the inside. Linda would just get drunk and get over it.

* * *

If Dahlia had any say in it, everything in her room would be black. Black bed sheets, black pillow cases, black desk, black desk lamp, black closet door, black floors, black wallpaper ... But when you grow up in one of the poorer neighbors in one of Gotham’s seediest districts, you just take what you can get. Not a single piece of furniture in her room matched, nor did it appear as if it would stand against even a gentle breeze. Minimalism was an inevitability, not a choice.

After throwing her books onto the bed, Dahlia immediately went for a drawer in her vanity and retrieved a half-used tube of cooling gel, and applied it to her bruising neck and cheek. And in between another pea-sized application of gel, she would drive her cheek to her shoulder to wipe away the calm, continuing tears.

Like a great mind reader, Cat - Dahlia’s rescued stray cat - hopped up through the ajar window from the fire escape, announcing his arrival with a chirp. What a relief it was to see him after a long day. Dahlia greeted him, sniffling sadly, and scooped him up from the windowsill. “Sorry, Cat, you’re going to have to grab something to eat on your own tonight. I just can't deal with her tonight.” Cat’s bright, inquisitive blue eyes just watched her blankly, content enough being with kind company.

Dahlia moved to her bed and slid onto it sideways, allowing her torso to fall into a pillow as she continued to cradle Cat.

“One more semester, I gotta remember. If I finish this semester, I can just transfer out and be done with this city.

“And I am so damn done with this city.”


	2. In which a tortured past resurfaces

“Hi, Dahlia!!”

_Oh Jesus_ ... Dahlia’s brows furrowed, face stiff as steel, as she continued her pace towards class, ignoring Natalie’s phony greetings. Although ignoring issues as those, sometimes, didn’t yield ideal results. Natalie called again: “Dahlia how are you! You look horrible! Did you have a bad night?”

Dahlia couldn’t help but take half a glance in their direction, noticing the blond sitting with three familiar figures in front of the cafeteria. Smirking sarcastically for half a beat before looking away again, she kept walking until some distance was laid, then habitually found some solitude in one of the restroom stalls.

“Miss Odell?”

“Oh hey, Professor Crane.” Natalie was clearly startled, pivoting on her bench to face him. The Professor, as was his usual, was dressed in a neatly tailored suit in a shade of slate grey. The man wasn’t old enough to be completely disconnected from the hip and trendy world of youngsters, and was actually considered the youngest among the faculty staff, and yet he seemed completely unrelatable on all levels. There was a massive air of unapproachability to him, a common secret inkling of subtle ego and overt seriousness. Most probably couldn't describe him as physically threatening, and he seemed a few inches shy of six feet tall, but his presence was immediately intimidating.

“... How are you?” Natalie attempted a greeting.

And Professor Crane just ... stared back. With those damn icy eyes. He took a few moments of silence before responding dryly, “Superb.” He didn’t reciprocate the query, and took a pause before walking away.

Natalie mouthed an obscenity to one of her colleagues. “Jesus, what was that about?”

* * *

His full name was Jonathan Crane.

In the living room of his comfortable little house, he sat reclined into a contemporary acrylic chair with suede cushioning. Next to that sat a matching side table with a glass of chilled tea. In one hand, Crane cradled some archaic kind of psychology book with fatigued pages: His original intention was to catch up on some personal studies, but he found himself uncharacteristically distracted.

Even more uncharacteristic of him, Crane realized momentarily that the source of his distraction was a fledgling curiosity of Dahlia Rhodes.

Perhaps Natalie Odell thought they were alone the prior night in the parking lot, but perhaps she also presumed incorrectly. The events that transpired before him, as he watched from the high window of a seemingly empty classroom, almost inspired sympathy. It reflected something ugly, buried not-so deeply within him. Something troublingly familiar from a period of his life many years ago.

Crane shut his book, and placed it carefully back into its place on his bookshelf.

* * *

In Psychology 102, the students were quietly completing their exams. Even in the auditory void, Dahlia's silence spoke volumes. Withdrawal from external stressors, he presumed. Pretend you’re a harmless flea and the wolves will pass by without noticing, right?

When the bell sounded, it was quickly muddied with the sound of shuffling papers, scooting chairs, and excited chatter. Professor Crane stood from his desk, lifting a hand to signal silence as he said with conviction, “Everyone!” Anyone who had been in his classroom for more than one day knew to allow him the floor, and so the students hushed themselves to hear his announcement. He continued, “Exams on my desk, stacked neatly. If you haven’t completed the exam this class period, I encourage you to reevaluate your time management abilities more closely this weekend.” Several students looked visibly taken aback by his cold dismissal. The rest simply complied, and as they exited the room, they stacked their paperwork neatly on the open corner of his desk.

Crane sat again at his desk as the last of the students left, and reached to adjust the papers to a more refined stack. Then, he noticed that Dahlia was still gathering her belongings to leave at a lethargic pace. She just seemed worn out.

He said nothing, and simply watched.

Dahlia sluggishly stacked her books, finally, before picking them up and trudging down the steps of the leveled seating area and towards the door. She felt Crane’s eyes, but pretended not to notice. Only a few feet from the door, his voice softly echoed into the nearly empty room: “How did you get those bruises?”

She stopped in her tracks, eyes lifting from the floor to look out ahead, saying nothing. A few moments later, and she continued her walk of shame with a bit more haste, leaving the lecture hall with cheeks hot with embarrassment.


	3. 03 - In which Cat goes missing

Weekends were  _ paradise _ .

Truly, paradise on Earth.

No school, no work, no people. No trips, no slips, no pokes, no names, no threats, no stares, no human interaction of any kind.

**_Paradise._ **

Dahlia’s father was a Gotham city policeman by the name of Lou Rhodes. He wasn’t home very often, but this particular Saturday, he was around when his daughter woke up. As she emerged from her bedroom with all the grace of a booze-addled zombie, he greeted her warmly. “Hey Darlin’!” She lit up, even through tired eyes, and the corners of her mouth stretched into a smile.

“Morning!” Rubbing the crust from one eye as she trudged to greet him in the kitchen, she noticed he was already in uniform and halfway finished with a mug of coffee. He’d be off to work again soon. Somewhat saddened by this, she slumped into him and wrapped her arms around his waist, and he returned the embrace.

Giving her back a firm rub, Lou asked, “What you been up to?”

Still smiling, and still holding onto him, Dahlia replied through her rusty morning voice, “Well, school aside, I fixed my camera, and got a few good shots the other day and am going to add those to my wall. Also was thinking about taking this Aikido class I saw advertised off Oak and Birch Street, just as a refresher.”

“That’s a great idea,” Lou replied. “Never hurts to brush up on a practical skill.”

Dahlia’s brows furrowed momentarily as she straightened her posture, continuing to rub her eyes. “Hey, have you seen Cat lately? I haven’t seen him in a few days.”

“Nah, sorry, haven’t seen him. I’m sure he’ll show up, probably just got distracted with something. You going to be heading out today?”

“Mm hm. Oh, so ... I was thinking of going to Killinger’s to browse some hats or something, but I ran short on cash. Could I borrow a little?”

“Of course!” Lou wouldn't count himself as comfortable, but managed to support the three of them and send Dahlia to a prestigious school. Really, his handling of his second wife’s alcohol problem aside, she didn’t have a single complaint. As he retrieved a small fold of cash up, Lou remarked, “No porn, no booze, no strip clubs.”

Her nose crinkling as she shrugged, Dahlia took the cash gently and quipped, “Can’t make promises on the last two, but I’ll make sure to bring you back a souvenir if so.” Lou cackled at the comment. Once the humor subsided, Dahlia could tell he was ready to head out, so added, “Hope you have a good day at work.”

Lou kissed his daughter on the top of her unkempt head of hair. “Thanks, Babygirl. Be safe.”

  
  


* * *

People watching, while the world’s cheapest pastime, wasn’t always as simple as ... well, watching people. Merely looking at them. Dahlia really took sport in it, as part of her passive interest in learning how those around her operated. School hooligans aside, she wanted to see what she could figure out about the humanity of Gotham. It was the type of deep intrigue that virtually no one knew about her, and that probably no one - besides her father - would ever know about her.

Not only was it a fun means of analyzing people, but it was a great way to learn how to anticipate the behaviors of your rivals and enemies.

A young woman tugging her son along the sidewalk, rushing to get across the street before the light turned. A portly old man walking his portly old dog down the opposite street. A businessman in a poorly tailored suit with long hair neatly tied back, briskly walking towards the office on a perfectly good Saturday. Dahlia could tell a dozen stories about them all, some true, some perhaps not.

She spent the rest of her morning people watching downtown until she felt the heaviness of her boots set into her sore feet. Nearby, she spotted a coffee shop and decided to take a quick rest before continuing her wandering over to the department store in Central Heights.

But as she neared the coffee shop, she spotted a familiar figure at the window and came to an ungraceful halt: Professor Crane. He was sitting quietly by himself in a corner table, reading over a newspaper. It suddenly made her uncomfortable, and without thinking further she rushed out of sight and turned a corner behind the adjacent building.

.....

...  _ Why am I hiding? _ ... Why was she? Really, she had no idea what she was thinking. Of all her instructors, Professor Crane was really the kinder one, even as stoic and robotic as he often seemed. But he was kind (observant?) enough to ask about the bruises on her face and neck, which by now were only barely beginning to fade (and mostly masked under a heavy application of makeup). Even with that small act aside, she had seen him break from a lecture on more than one occasion to make a clever joke, and even smile.

But her feet didn’t budge. The grips of some perplexing social anxiety were too tight. Instead, her feet turned her right around and back down the street she came from. Not understanding her own behavior, and not willing to sort through her thoughts, Dahlia merely headed off to Killinger’s Department Store.

* * *

By the time Dahlia got home with a new wide-brimmed hat in tow, night had fallen. Once she walked inside though, she immediately contemplated leaving again: Lou was obviously not yet home, and Linda was there, drinking herself silly. Again.

The only greeting Dahlia had the patience to muster was: “Linda, have you seen my cat lately?”

The hag slurred back, “Nope. S’yer cat.  **You** take care of it.”

" **Him** .” Dahlia corrected with a firm tone, rolling her eyes as she snatched an umbrella from the coat closet before heading right back out the front door to look for Cat. As it slammed shut, Linda called out with an uncoordinated arm wafting above her head,

“Hey,  **hey** ! Where’s yer father?! He’s been gone all night’n you don’t give a shit, do you? I dun’ believe fer a minute he’s savin’ Gotham. Whatta waste, ha! Save this dump city ...”

* * *

Bringing an umbrella turned out to be a fruitless endeavor.

The rain that fell was fat, heavy, and plentiful. And the poor, cheap umbrella clutched in Dahlia’s hands had begun to crumple more and more every second, until finally several of the ribs snapped and the canopy buckled around her. With surprised grunt, Dahlia gave up and tossed it into the next trash can she passed. Maybe a new umbrella would have been a better purchase than a hat.

Well, she hoped dearly that Cat had found shelter somewhere, and that he was alright.

About an hour went by with no progress made. At this point, she began to become seriously concerned. Maybe someone did something to him, or maybe he had been hit by a car and the street sweepers picked up his body. The last thought made her eyes tear up: God, she hoped that was not the case at all. But in her growing desperation, Dahlia resorted to door-knocking. Her neighborhood wasn’t the most ... hospitable. But desperate times called for socially awkward and potentially inconvenient measures.

The first person was probably the most rude, leaving a good impression with his dismissive expletive before slamming the door almost literally into Dahlia’s face. The rest were quite reasonable by comparison: Either simply saying “no,” slamming the door back shut, or just pretending that they weren’t home.

After walking quite a distance, Dahlia reached a neighborhood just on the opposite side of one of the island’s short bridges. There was a lot less garbage in the streets here, and the trees were actually trimmed. She didn’t presume Cat would wander so far, but she wanted to be sure before turning in for the night. She picked her next move carefully: There was little chance of Cat working up the courage to scale an unknown apartment building or set of condominiums, so Dahlia sufficed to merely examine the perimeter of each property. No sign of the furkid yet.

Past the rentals, Dahlia came across several rows of relatively small houses: She recognized this as one of the many historical districts around Gotham. These particular houses were notoriously very expensive and very old - some almost 100 years old - but they were very well maintained and tastefully decorated.

A few houses down and Dahlia so far had no luck in getting anyone to answer their door. The next one she approached caught her off guard when the owner peeked out of the window and gave her a steaming glare: She took the hint and skipped their door. The next door she came to looked as if it were recently replaced, compared to the other houses with more rustic wooden doors. This particular door looked heavy, was polished and finished in a near black shade of umber, with a peep hole and no house number on the front. Odd.

Dahlia knocked on the door. Wow, it felt heavy too. She wondered if the occupants even heard her knock.

As the door opened, and the golden light from the living room lamps stretched over her, she began, “Please don’t turn me away. I’m looking- ...”

Her throat seized, completely dumbfounded as every process in her brain moved to immediate denial of her strange luck.

Crane spoke, unable to mask the entirety of his mirrored surprise. “Miss Rhodes ... ?”


	4. In which a fly is lured

... And his surprise was, still, glaringly obvious. "Are you looking for something?"

Dahlia's lips moved silently. After a moment, she managed a raspy, "I-I was ... looking for ... someone important to me."

Crane looked down to the photograph that Dahlia had forgotten was in her hands. Without hesitation, he took it from her and examined it as he finished, "Your pet?"

She nodded a few times and replied, "Yes, my friend. I haven't seen him since the other night."

After another look at the photo, he handed it back and said, "I'm sorry, Miss Rhodes. I don't recall this particular cat."

The disappointment of not finding Cat was on about equal footing with the nervousness she felt standing there. "Thank you anyway. Sorry for disturbing you, Professor." She turned to leave.

"Don't be silly." Crane laid a smile across his lips, and sidestepped the open doorway to clear a path. "Come in for a while, if you'd like. The rain is coming down quite hard and you must be freezing."

Jeez this was awkward.

Dahlia's brain couldn't get over this bizarre happenstance, and further yet being invited inside her teacher's private home. Was this actually happening? She couldn't do it, she was dying of anxiety. "No, that's okay, Professor-"

"Please, you're no bother." Crane finished.

A beat later and Dahlia said quietly, sacrificing her comfort as to not be rude, "Thank you. I won't be long though, I should probably get home some time soon."

"You're no bother, Miss Rhodes."

Once she entered, Crane took a half step out the front door to have a clear glance around outside. Then he shut and locked the door.

Certainly a fine home, Dahlia thought to herself. Very clean and tidy, contemporary with some classic elements. Lots of straight lines, warm neutral colors. No plants, no photos, just abstract paintings and tons and tons of books. Bookcases were the primary furniture selection in this house, lining every bare wall and stuffed full.

Sad to admit that Dahlia never had many friends growing up, and so wasn't used to seeing another person's private space. It was so much nicer than her own, she felt like she was looking at the spread of a home and garden magazine. She didn't think places like this were real. And somehow, it all made sense that this was how Crane chose it. She felt a tinge of jealousy.

Crane walked towards another room while Dahlia waited in the tiled entryway, to avoid soaking the carpet. She called, "You have a beautiful house."

A flapping sound suddenly caught her attention. Looking towards one of the windows on an adjacent wall, she spotted a tall wooden perch and ... a huge black bird?! A sizable crow was clutched to it, staring towards her with its wings spread. It gave several short and loud rhythmic caws, startling Dahlia to the point of drawing back in surprise.

When he reentered the room, Crane had a towel in his hands. He softly hushed the bird, and handed the towel to Dahlia as he said, "Thank you. Don't let Nightmare scare you. Her namesake is more frightening than she is."

The girl pressed the towel to her face first, not breaking her gaze to Nightmare. Then running it over her hair, Dahlia said, "It's okay, I'm not scared. Was just surprised."

Nodding, Crane offered with upright palms, "I can take your jacket, so you can dry off." She nodded and slipped it off, placing it into his hands. He went to hang it on a nearby coat rack.

Five minutes into her internal panic, Dahlia actually began to feel more at ease. She felt compelled to continue discussion.

"I never figured you to be the type to have a pet, Professor."

"I have a soft spot for birds." Motioning her towards the living room seating, he continued, "Nightmare is my partner in crime and confidant." Crane stood near the perch and affectionately stroked the crow's breast.

Dahlia quickly assessed her seating options and at that moment realized that Jonathan Crane didn't own a sofa. His living room seating was comprised only of armchairs and single seats. It was unremarkably strange to her. She chose the seat furthest from her host. First, neatly folding the towel over several times and placing that between her rump and the cushion, to avoid it getting wet. Curiously she let slip, "... isn't it illegal to keep a crow as a pet, since they're considered wild?"

Crane's eyes were still on Nightmare. "Only if you don't have a federal permit." They moved to Dahlia, accompanied with a nondescript smile. "Would you like something to drink? Hot tea maybe?" She nodded. He nodded and headed towards the rear of the house and into the kitchen.

* * *

  
  


_ Jonathan Crane. Your curiosity knows no bounds, and your willingness to take action is what separates you from the meek. _

As he set his electric kettle to boil, Crane was pondering what to do with this particular development.

Dahlia Rhodes was in his house, behind a locked door.

She was vulnerable and defenseless.

Experienced, yet somewhat pure.

... But was  _ he  _ ready?

Without much debate, he tabled his unspoken idea for another day. It was too great of a risk presently.

After several minutes, Crane returned to the living room with two cups of hot steeping tea in hand. He set one on the coffee table in front of Dahlia, then took his seat in the armchair by Nightmare. He allowed a moment of silence to pass as he gently blew at and sipped from his own cup, peripherally observing Dahlia. She tried so hard to avoid eye contact with him, and had her legs crossed not for physical but for emotional comfort.

"Professor ... I'm sorry about the other day."

He arched a brow. Nothing he knew of Dahlia figured she'd be the one to fill a void of silence. Rather, she seemed the type to let it be. "Oh? What for?"

A beat, and then, "When you asked about my appearance, and I said nothing. I'm sorry. I just ... didn't know what to say. I guess I panicked?"

She was certainly timid, but perhaps not as immature as he figured.

"There's nothing to apologize for, Miss Rhodes. It wasn't my place to ask."

"No, it's okay." Dahlia went for the bait. Her eyes dropped to the floor. "In all honestly ... I had a really rough night the other day. Worse than my usual." She took a sip of her tea, and nodded approvingly.

"Suffering verbal abuse is inevitable for everyone, eventually." Crane placed his tea on a slim table by his armchair. "But physical violence is entirely unacceptable."

Clearly that wasn't what Dahlia was expecting to hear, as her eyes flicked upward. He immediately regretted the tone of his comment, as she interrupted, "I'm sorry, I don't need to get others involved in my personal business. I'll take care of it." Poor mouse, this was too direct for her.

And yet, Crane didn't have the patience to ease off just yet. His chin lowered slightly and he looked at her head on. "Was it Natalie Odell?"

Silence.

"She seems to have quite the grudge on you, for reasons unknown."

Dahlia stared into her tea. After a pause she added, "Some of the people at our school are just ... evil."

* * *

  
  


After a short bit, Dahlia decided it was time to head home.

Unexpectedly again, Crane had taken a spare umbrella from a hall closet and lent it to her. After helping her back into her damp coat, he said, "Avoid catching a cold. I expect to see you in class next week." She managed a smile and nodded.

The rain outside slowed down finally.

Dahlia added a soft, "Thank you." And headed back to the street and towards the bridge.

Crane stood outside his front door and gently closed it, ensuring that Dahlia at least made it down the street unscathed. As he watched through the rainfall, he took a seat on the wooden chair under his narrow porch, deep in contemplation.


	5. In which a fly is caught

Cat was still missing.

So was Dahlia’s father. Although that wasn’t an unexpected state of affairs. Lou overworked himself and could stay holed up in his office at the police station for days at a time. It was hard to draw the line between what was expected and what was suspicious sometimes.

Linda didn't like this, because she dreaded being alone with Dahlia. At least that’s what Dahlia herself figured.

She'd do both a favor by spending a couple of extra hours away from home today.

The neighborhood that Killinger’s occupied was the closest shopping district to where Dahlia lived. Although its tourist days seemed only in the past, it was now the local go-to for virtually every shopping and restaurant need imaginable.

Leaving the nearest transit station to Killinger’s, her first stop was a newsstand on the street corner. She picked up that day’s newspaper and a few magazines for both herself and her father. The front page of the paper had a large, blurry photograph of some angular figure in the night. The title read: “BATMAN INTERCEPTS DRUG SHIPMENT”.

A sharp exhale escaped her nostrils. The entire premise of a masked vigilante was somehow just completely ridiculous, and yet here he was.

Dahlia’s father would often fill her in about the Batman, and about the administrative and PR nightmares it would land the GPD in. Lou was of strong mind that the law shouldn’t be taken into rogue hands. She mostly agreed.

Part of her couldn’t blame the vigilante though. He seemed to be making real leaps and bounds in the criminal world precisely by operating outside the system, and giving himself a presumably larger budget to work within.

That thought made her feel guilty for her father's hardest efforts.

  
  


* * *

  
  


The day was being led by a particularly auspicious mood. Dahlia took a new turn down a narrow street she had never thought to look twice at. Much to her surprise, a new family-owned bookstore had opened its doors, just a few months prior. And the thing that lured Dahlia in wasn’t just the new adventure and the excitement of adding to her own small collection, but that  _ smell _ . Outside the front doors was a musk of dustiness and age - She noticed the signage out front indicating that the stocks were primarily for pre-owned books. Just her style.

Dahlia wasn’t a particularly picky reader. She enjoyed a wide range of subjects, just so long as the author demonstrated even a modicum of passion and direction in their words. Adventure, fantasy, history, martial arts, religion, philosophy ...

After perusing other aisles, she made it to the psychology section. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but figured a title would jump out at her.

A few seconds later, bold red letters across a matte black cover stuck out:  _ Hatred  _ by Mathilde Strode.

Her index finger carefully traced the spine before picking it out. Unexpectedly, Dahlia felt a sense of somberness blanket her. The idea of hate altogether would always relate back to school, her stepmother, and to everyone she ever encountered that abused her and those around them. And a difficult concept to relate to when your general demeanor seems to lack much aggression. Maybe reading up on the nature of hatred could connect some dots and provide her with some ideas, and hopefully some catharsis.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Interesting how frequent our chance encounters are, Miss Rhodes.”

“ _ -Oh ... ! _ ”

Totally taken off guard, Dahlia’s shoulders shot halfway to her ears when the familiar voice cut through her thoughts.

Who else but Jonathan Crane? This certainly was quite a chance encounter.

And for reasons unbeknownst to her, Dahlia felt her cheeks grow hot. On his off day, Crane of course wasn’t in his usual suit. Instead he was sporting a pale gray button-up with a well-loved corduroy jacket. She immediately thought to herself that she liked it, and right after shook the embarrassing thought away.

Under his arm, he carried a few fairly large books with covers all torn and worn. He asked, "Like minds?"

Dahlia smiled warmly and responded, "Yeah, I'm stocking up at home. And used books are the best. New ones just don't ..." She paused, nose wrinkling as she attempted to find the right descriptor.

Crane finished, "Have character?"

"Yes!" She nodded. "The smell, the feel. I appreciate that someone had owned these books for however long they did, and figured they were worth more than a garbage bin. They got a second chance. And some of these books were well-loved enough that people even wrote nice notes in them."

... Well that sentimental rant came out of no where, Dahlia thought.

Crane bailed her out with a quiet chuckle. "I'm glad to see you're in better spirits today." Blushing harder than ever, Dahlia had no comment and let him continue. "Did you end up finding your cat? Your ..." He paused, waiting for a name.

"Um. Cat is his name actually." She laughed at herself. "Breakfast at Tiffany's reference. But no, he hasn't turned up yet."

The corners of Crane's mouth pulled downward briefly before he replied, "Well, that's unfortunate. I'm sure he'll show up eventually." After a pause, he took Hatred from Dahlia's hand and held it up. "This one's on me."

Dahlia wasn't quite ready to leave so soon, but once again found herself too beside herself to respond quick enough. Following Crane to the check-out counter, she noticed an elderly woman was attending the register. Pushing her curled white hair away from her eyes, she offered an open hand to take Crane's selections. "Find everything you need today, good sir?"

He handed the hefty books over and scoffed. "I can't possibly look that old for that title, can I?" Dahlia couldn't tell right if that was an attempt at joke or not. She stayed at his flank to observe.

The old woman snorted as her scanner beeped. "Too old for me anymore, kiddo."

He made a soft hissing sound. "Resistance is futile, Tillie." Crane's hands retrieved his wallet from his back pocket.

"I'll reconsider when you get more flexible."

_ OH MY GOD _ .

Was this what joking was like with him? Never in a goddamn million years would Dahlia have pegged Crane for one to jest like that. Clearly he built some rapport with this woman, and he shopped at this store long before she had wandered along. Was it really long enough to deem this level of joking appropriate?

The concept was mind-boggling and Dahlia had  _ dozens  _ of questions.

Both Tillie and Crane shared a laugh. After they bantered a moment longer, she handed him the books in a large bag and then looked Dahlia square in the eyes. Dahlia froze.

"You've got a fiesty catch here, young lady."

_ NO NO NO NO NO _ .

Crane raised a hand and shook his head. "Only colleagues, nothing more." As he motioned Dahlia to walk with him out of the store, he called to Tillie one last time, "See you next week for our date!"

The old woman crowed and waved goodbye to Crane. Even through her powdery makeup, Dahlia could tell that she was blushing.

Before she knew it, Dahlia was at Crane's side while he ordered hot coffee from a shop two doors down from the bookstore. She realized perfectly well that she wasn't directly invited, but the way that he moved and behaved threw her expectations. He just began to walk and talk, and not wanting to come off rude, Dahlia bridged the gap and followed. She couldn't tell if he was expecting this or not. What a peculiar lack of communication, she thought.

After being handed a hot tea, the two walked outside again and Dahlia felt compelled to say something.

"I apologize about last night, Professor."

"Again? What possibly for, Miss Rhodes?"

"For ... being shy and weird, I guess?" Her heart began to race as she continued, her fingers tracing the textures of her cup of tea. Being this earnest wasn't her usual style when talking to someone she didn't know well. Her eyes dropped to the ground. "That whole school situation, and the people who I mentioned were assholes ... I know it's like a public secret. But it's kind of a sore spot that I just don't like to really talk about. And I'm sorry I was weird about it."

When she looked back up after a pause and a shrug, Crane was looking straight back. Her chest began to feel light, and her anxiety climbed yet higher. He said, "I suppose my curiosity got the better of me. You're not alone in those experiences, Dahlia."

"I know I'm not, but I feel like this town's made of nothing but-"

"I was referring to myself, actually."

Her brows furrowed. "You were bullied, Professor?" Going by how confident he came off, she wouldn't have guessed.

Crane gave a slow nod. "I had a lot of monikers around high school specifically. Usually something to do with being a slim guy with glasses, or growing up as a poor country kid whose grandmother couldn't and didn't want to afford clothes without holes in them."

This was fascinating to her. She nodded without breaking eye contact, curious to hear more.

He indulged her a bit. "If Grandmother Crane thought my work in the field was inadequate, or if she caught me reading a book, she'd make me dress in my Sunday best, lock me in the aviary with starving crows."

" _ What the f ... _ " Dahlia stopped herself from continuing. She sympathized, and empathized, entirely.

"I trust we can remain professional with each other, Miss Rhodes." Crane handed her Hatred and said, "But you have at least  **one** friend in this town."

She didn't think herself the type to cry at this kind of thing, and yet she could feel moisture rising as the corners of her lips were pulled up into a smile.

  
  


* * *

  
  


By the time she finally arrived at home, Lou had made it back as well.

He didn't take off his shoes, however. No doubt he was going to be headed back out again.

Dahlia and her father chit chatted a bit before she headed for her bedroom to wind down. The last free night before this week's classes began again. Lou threw his hand in the air towards her. "Oh that reminds me! Some guy came by earlier and said he found Cat. Said he was a school pal of yours?"

**It couldn't be ...**

The excitement overcame her as Dahlia carefully opened the door to her bedroom. Cat didn't jump out in her field of vision. What?

A second later, relief kicked in full blast when she noticed him sleeping curled under her desk and on her desk chair. She began crying as she gently pulled the chair out to hold him. Cat meowed softly, being stirred from his nap, and melted affectionately into Dahlia's arms.

After a moment she looked back towards her father, who was standing in the doorway basking in shared relief. A sniffle and then she said, "A school friend found him?"

"Yeah, young skinny guy with brown hair, crazy blue eyes, about my height."

The amount of happy coincidences in this day were overwhelming.

And he was so modest too. She figured Crane didn't want to spoil her on the surprise until she got home and saw for herself.

With relief, Dahlia whispered to herself,

" _ Finally, someone I don't need to be afraid of. _ "


	6. In which a Scarecrow appears

The bell rang, followed by the shuffling of feet and papers.

As the class was dismissed, Natalie Odell shoved through the crowd towards the door and shrieked, " **_The vampire's out for my blood!_ ** "

Natalie's group of friends laughed. The rest murmured. Dahlia remained seated.

Crane watched.

A few minutes later, Dahlia gathered her things, slung her bag over her shoulder, and trudged down to the floor and towards the door. Dejectedly she asked, "Does it ever get easier?"

He couldn't tell if it was pity, but he certainly felt something when the broken thing said that sentence. Crane replied, "I'll address it."

As she trudged down the hall, Crane watched her. Shame for anyone to suffer such relentless harassment, to the degree of feeling confusion towards any semblance of amity with another person. These things could turn into life-long traumas, he knew.

He supposed he'd need to get the parents and the dean involved and stay out of their way. For now, he didn't pay it any mind.

Until the next day in class when he noticed Dahlia's usual spot in the classroom was empty. And not just that single day, but the next day as well. She wasn't the type to miss class often, and always seemed to be of fair enough health.

Crane decided to pass out an assignment himself, while announcing to the room his expectations for the day. As he passed the notorious clique, he overheard faint chatter among the girls. He finished a sentence, then with equal volume, addressed Natalie directly: "I suggest you focus on the task at hand before your assignment doubles in length."

The girl stared back, clearly offended, clearly not threatened. But with a quick raise of her eyebrows, she replied with emphasis, "Yes sir."

* * *

  
  


Every evening, that clique would loiter at the furthest end of the expansive GSU parking lot, sitting together in the bed of a pickup truck. Chatting, laughing, often times drinking, and occasionally snorting cocaine.

Among these youthful rebels were Natalie, plus Caitlin, Chris, and Tanner.

Chris was Natalie's jock boyfriend, and owner of the truck they often ran amok in. Caitlin and Tanner were their surface-level friends, and a couple themselves.

On this night, the four were sharing a case of beer with a few coke hits, and catching up on the latest school news.

After some time, Chris pulled himself into a standing position with the roof of the cabin. "Be back, gotta take a leak." The bed bounced slightly as he hopped off, making his way towards the nearest university building perhaps 100 feet away.

Chris wasn't sure which building he was near but he didn't care. He was too inebriated and energized to locate the nearest bathroom and decided to unzip outside an unoccupied wall.

He didn't hear the soft footsteps coming from behind.

After Chris finished and zipped up, he turned to meander back to his friends when a nearby figure startled him. A surprise at first, he quickly felt at ease when he realized it was a run-of-the-mill scarecrow. Guffawing, he stepped forward to investigate. "What the hell's this shit doing here?"

It was a slim character in a torn and dusty slate gray suit and a burlap sack over the head, with two tiny cut-outs for the eyes. Around the neck was a noose, and the mouth was made from a long and crooked slit held shut with twine switching. A home-made scarecrow.

"Oh man, they gotta see this ugly-ass thing-"

Wait, stop.

**It moved!**

In the blink of an eye, a pressured hissing sound emitted and Chris was engulfed in a plume of white smoke. He had no idea where it came from. The scarecrow? It had moved!

He fell to his knees coughing.

Drawn by the sound, Natalie, Caitlin, and Tanner all came jogging over. They were so preoccupied with checking on Chris that they failed to notice the Scarecrow raise a semi-automatic pistol and point it at Chris' head. His face blanched rapidly, and the others began to loudly chatter pleadingly for their lives.

What shocked all of them more than the firearm was Chris, who suddenly began to wail and shriek. It was a gut-wrenching cry of pure, raw, primal fear. No human should ever deserve to make such a sound.

Then the scarecrow spoke. Deep, ethereal, and booming.

" **_Get lost._ ** "

Tanner grabbed Chris around his chest and dragged him as they sprinted away. Natalie and Caitlin were soon to follow.

... Before Natalie lost her footing and fell to the asphalt, hard. Caitlin slowed and looked back. But when the scarecrow began to follow them at an unnervingly calm walking pace, she abandoned thoughts of loyalty and opted for self preservation, following the boys back to the truck and out of the area.

The blond was too terrified to get to her feet, and she betrayed everything in her ego that told her not to show frailty. Her cheeks were wet with tears and her bare legs were scraped and bleeding.

Flipping over onto her back in a submissive posture, she held out an arm towards the nearing scarecrow. "What do you want?!" She screamed at it.

Another hiss and another plume of white smoke. Natalie closed her eyes and tried to waft it away, but it was far too thick. It didn't seem natural.

She began to cough violently, rolling onto her side in attempt to nose out clean air.

The scarecrow boomed again:

" **_I want your obedience._ ** "

When Natalie looked towards it again, her sobbing became only more violent. "No, no ... NO! Get away!" She was screaming again and again, and jerked backwards so roughly that her palms began to rip open from the asphalt. Her panicked screams softened to manic whimpers and pleas. "You're not real, you're not real, you're not real ...

"You can't be real, you can't be real, you can't be real ..."

* * *

  
  


Lou knew that his daughter was braver and more capable of more than what she knew, but that didn't mean he stopped worrying about her at any given time. It was unlike her to miss more than a day of classes, and at the breakneck curriculum speed of the University, she couldn't afford to lose much more.

She lied to him about the misses, of course, figuring he wouldn't know if he wasn't even home. But he knew his daughter too well.

Ah well.

The mail room was in the secured lobby of their building. Lou made sure to check the mailbox on his way back out to work, but was confused to see that a newspaper had been delivered. They didn't have a subscription to the local post.

Even more suspicious, it was folded open to display a seemingly deliberate headline: " **NIGHT ATTACK ON STUDENTS AT GSU"** .

* * *

  
  


The next day of class, Dahlia's spot was still empty.

The lecture continued.

After about ten minutes, Crane heard the classroom door open. When he looked over with intent to scold the late student ... it was Dahlia.

Panting and with a light sweat on her forehead, she hurried to her usual place. "I'm sorry, I woke up late."

Crane waited for her to take a seat and get her textbook open.

Then the lecture continued.


	7. In which motives are questioned

Dahlia felt like an entirely new person.

She was calm and quite collected, emitting a glow of contentedness.

Would she be considered a bad person for enjoying some of the misery of her schoolmates? Natalie and the lot of them, they deserved it, right? Haven’t seen them doing anyone any favors in recent memory. She was allowed to feel ...  _ avenged _ , wasn’t she?

There was the small consideration for a potential replacement. Meaning, all her life, there was always someone that Dahlia seemed to have looming over her. When one aggressor left, another would take its place. Sometimes a stranger, sometimes a schoolmate, sometimes family. At times, sometimes all of the above.

But maybe not this time. This time, people were taking things very seriously. The newspaper said that an armed person in a scarecrow costume committed an act of aggravated assault against two students. On top of that, the two showed signs of severe disassociation and panic, and early toxicology reports returned with unclear conclusions. They didn’t release names in print, but Dahlia knew - Natalie and Chris hadn’t been at school the last few days. Rumor was that they were in ICU at Gotham General.

It sounded like utter  _ madness _ .

_... And she liked it. _

* * *

  
  


Although they hadn’t bumped into each other outside of school since the bookstore, Dahlia recognized that she was feeling more and more at ease with Crane. He had behaved only like a gentleman and never made her purposefully feel uncomfortable. The anxiety levels were at a record low.

Once the last student left when class wrapped up and the door closed, she asked him: “So what’s up? What did you want to talk with me about?”

Crane stood silent for a moment, arms crossed over his chest with a contemplative stretch of the lips. Then he said, “I hope this doesn’t come out as awkward ... I want to perform a behavioral study for my next thesis. And frankly, I thought you might be a good participant.”

Dahlia’s cheeks flared as she let out a modest sigh. “Me? I mean, you sort of know me, right?”

“Which is precisely why I chose you.”

Sometimes she felt as if Crane was on a secret mission to see how many times he could embarrass her with sweetness. It was overbearingly cheesy but so deeply welcomed.

Crane continued. “Well, also. Do you think I could persuade any other student on this campus, without them assuming that mean old Professor Crane is conducting some crazy experiment in his lab of doom?”

Humor. It felt a bit more natural now. Dahlia replied, “I’ll bring the methanal for them.” She mirrored the large smile that spread across Crane’s face. And noted how warm she felt at that moment. “I’ll do it, sure. Whatever you need.”

A strange chill hit her. During this quiet pause in discussion, Dahlia noticed something.

It was the way Crane looked at her. Which, of course, is a very subjective perception. Yet she couldn’t help but feel like she was a painting or a sculpture, being displayed and observed. It was a heavy sense of intimidation, and somehow, flattery. She couldn't quite place it.

Crane thankfully broke the short silence. “Would you be available Friday in the late evening?”

Dahlia nodded, while pondering just how much of her thoughts showed on her face that moment prior. She was so fixated on his eyes.

“Perfect.” One of his hands came to rest on her upper back, as he eased her towards the door. “Let’s meet at my house. But, let's also remain discreet on this, hm? I’d rather not get spun up in other rumors claiming favoritism or who knows what.”

“Makes sense to me,” Dahlia managed to say. “See you later, Professor.”

* * *

  
  


Studying at the library was a wasted half-effort. Dahlia was extraordinarily distracted, with no intention of admitting to herself what by.

Before she knew it, night had come and the library was closing.

Leaving the building and passing through part of the campus, Dahlia overheard a conversation taking place between two girls. About the student attack, and Natalie and Chris.

A fading sentence from one of the girls stood out in the quiet air. "Natalie's biggest target was some goth girl. It makes me wonder if she has a dad in the mob or something."

The other one replied, "Just avoid her, dude. I don't want to end up in a psych ward, too. Hell no."

Dahlia couldn't hold back the excited gasp that swelled inside.

What a  _ wonderful feeling. _

Gotham might have had its vigilante savior, but Dahlia felt completely set free by this " **Scarecrow** ." No attention, no targets on her back - Just peace. Finally she could finish her school days with minimal human interaction.

Before she could head home, Dahlia realized ... tonight was Thursday. She didn't have Psychology on Fridays, and she and Crane never clarified a specific time to meet.

Would he mind if she just took a guess? Eh, it was pointless, the lack of specificity would bug her all night and day. She figured there was a chance that Crane was still on campus. Maybe she'd just do the adult thing and ask.

* * *

  
  


Dahlia took a detour from her normal route to head back to the psychology classroom. The square window was dimly lit, so she figured he was still around. As she approached, she noticed the professor's singularly-lit desk was cluttered with papers and notes. At a closer distance, she could make out several amber bottles gathered at one corner of the desk. Crane wasn't in sight.

Dahlia thought nothing of grabbing the door, but was surprised to find it locked. She sidestepped to the window to knock, but took pause.

In the darkness somewhat behind the lit desk, she noticed something peculiar. It was a steel medicine cabinet with a handle for carrying, and she could barely make out a strip of tape across the front was labeled ... " _ corrosives _ "? It didn't seem to fit in with the expected supplies for this science wing.

And she couldn't help but admit that it didn't seem to fit in with what a psychology teacher does.

Then, Crane stepped out from a blind spot, heading towards his desk. Dahlia reared back in surprise and immediately started making her way off campus before she was noticed.

Her mind raced with all manner of queries and explanations. What was he doing? Why was he taking such dangerous materials? What would he possibly need with them? Or ...

... is it funded by the college, and he just had a late night so is only packing up now? Maybe he worked out a deal with the dean for getting support on that thesis?

The whole situation was making her head spin. She dismissed the notion, telling herself to feel confident that Crane had things worked out the right way.


	8. In which a study is concluded

_ “He ’s so ugly, and looks like a total dork.” _

_ "Hillbilly nerd!" _

_ "FAGGOT!" _

As the preteen ran out of his school cafeteria, he was battered with an empty soda bottle. His long legs didn’t slow or tire, he just kept going until he was far away from where he was.

Things didn’t get better with age. The school bullies just used bigger rocks if he looked at them a little too “strangely." Sometimes for just walking by them at the wrong place in the wrong time.

Home wasn’t safe either.

Grandmother “Keeny” had his recently-laundered apparel and accouterments set out after a long day in the wheat field. He was sobbing because he knew what he was dressing himself for, and had no idea how to stop it.

Flash forward. Swarms of black swiping at you from the sky. Blinding eyes, shrieking rage. Their talons are so sharp.

Flash forward. A once-sweet girl fabricating stories about his actions. Weekly scheduled counseling for the rest of the school year.

Flash forward. The once-sweet girl crying, bleeding, screaming.

Choking, coughing, gasping.

* * *

  
  


Crane’s eyes flickered for a moment before slowly opening. He was slumped upright in his choice armchair, with mild perspiration formed on his forehead. Taking a deep inhale, he straightened up with a quiet grunt.

Nightmare crowed loudly and flew from her perch to the top of a bookcase. Her usual sign for being hungry.

He inhaled deeply as he stretched both arms forward, and felt a few kinks work out of his spine. Lifting himself into a standing position, he paused to look at his wristwatch.

Time to work.

He picked up a steel medicine cabinet on his way into the spare bedroom, and opened the closet door.

As he descended the stairs, he gave loud instruction, “I expect none of you to be here tomorrow night. I have important matters to attend to.”

  
  


Once at Gotham General, Crane approached the reception counter with briefcase in hand. Moving his head forward slightly, he asked in a quiet and excessively polite tone, “Ah, may I ask where miss Natalie Odell may be? I’m a visitor, her professor from Gotham State.”

The stocky nurse nodded, flipping through a few papers. “Yeah I remember her. Room 2080, down that hallway and make the second right.”

Crane nodded and charmingly smiled. “Thank you kindly.”

Near room 2080, Crane noticed a physician being pulled away from his cart by a nurse towards another room. The professor made no hesitations and smoothly swiped the patient file before disappearing into the room without a peep.

* * *

  
  


... ... ...

... ...

...

" _ Hm, showing signs of recovery as of today’s date, which means the toxin is temporary. _ "

The voice was faint for Natalie, as she stirred awake and strained to hear. The eyes fluttered but the pupils didn’t travel anywhere but the ceiling.

“ _ The method of administration was effective. But I think I can still do better. _ "

She blinked hard several times. She wanted to wipe the crust from her eyelashes, but found that her arms felt heavy. She was too exhausted to move.

Hey eyes moved from the overhead tiles to the ceiling-mounted rail of her dividing curtain. Someone pulled it shut - she thought it had been left open. The voice came in louder now. It was distorted and layered.

" **_Good morning, Natalie. How are you feeling?_ ** "

“Like crap.” The blonde replied bluntly. She didn’t quite register the abnormality of this disembodied voice. Regardless, she was already a little suspicious. After another few minutes, her muscles noticeably tensed, but her tone stayed consistent. “Who- ... What are you doing here?”

" **_Assessing the effectiveness of my medicine._ ** "

Natalie paused to consider her next words. “I thought you were supposed to be a mad psychology teacher, not a mad chemist.”

Now that her eyes had adjusted better to the hospital lighting, she could make out the distinctive mask of that scarecrow. The rest was still a blur. Her blood pumped faster.

“ **_What do you remember since then?_ ** "

“... Nothing. I don’t know.” She could feel her heartbeat in her neck. And realized too late that she was better off keeping quiet.

" **_You blink a lot when you’re worried. Did you know that?_ ** "

Her breathing became heavier with effort. She was feeling warm. It was morbidly upsetting to have been right about him. ”You’d know ...”

" **_I just thought you’d like to see my mask up close._ ** "

Now her throat seized. She couldn’t force any words or sounds to come out, and only watched the scarecrow mask raise and head towards a nearby briefcase. As the eyes followed, she noticed in her peripheral: There were straps around her wrists and ankles, keeping her tied to the bed. Weakly, she pulled her wrists back as far as she could and pushed them side to side. It was futile.

" **_It’s not scary to someone like you, I’m sure. Someone whose sheer willpower surpasses that of many young ladies your age ..._ ** "

She began to push herself into the bedding with frustration, tears now streaking down her cheeks. Something near him unclasped and creaked. Then glass clinked together, and the same creak with a soft thud. Whatever it was doing sent a chill up her spine and into her skull. All of her thoughts screamed at her in unison to panic.

The scarecrow held out a strange vial with some kind of mechanical attachment. It motioned to the vial with its free hand, like a game show model.

" **_... but that only needs a little help._ ** "

It stepped toward the bed.

“ **_I prepared the perfect prescription, just for you, Natalie._ ** ”

Another huge plume of white smoke, noticeably less opaque than the last, blanketed over her before she could cry out for help. She began to cough uncontrollably, and her arms found second wind to violently attempt to shake the straps free. Her bed began to squeak and sway.

Every millisecond, she became more desperate. Anything to get away. Anything to escape.

She was terrified beyond all reason.


	9. In which dream becomes nightmare

Caitlin purposefully bumped into Dahlia in the busy hallway before classes began, hard enough to warrant a few questions. Dahlia stopped in her tracks after regaining her footing, and faced Caitlin with her brows furrowed, waiting an explanation. The aggressor spoke. “Natalie’s condition got worse. She punched out a doctor and went crazy before they relocated her to another hospital. We’re not sure where or why yet.”

The subtle shift of Dahlia’s facial muscles might have indicated some degree of remorse. But still, she asked, “Why are you telling me this?”

Caitlin closed the gap between them, inches away from her face, with a mean glare in her eyes. “Because I think you have something to do with it, **_bitch_ **.”

Immediately, Dahlia knew she wasn’t ready to get pushed around again. She simply wasn’t in the damn mood.

Hissing back, she threatened, " ** _Keep spreading lies, and then see what happens to you next._ **"

Before a reaction could come, Dahlia barreled her shoulder into Caitlin’s and shoved through, nearly toppling the girl in the process. She didn’t turn back when Caitlin shouted with frustration.

* * *

  
  


Dahlia must have been standing around Crane’s front door for ten minutes without knocking. Maybe it was anxiety, or maybe it was suspicion. Either way, it nearly made her nauseous with stress. The door suddenly opened and Dahlia’s eyes shot up in surprise.

“Miss Rhodes? How long have you been standing there?”

" **Uhhhhh**." She muttered. “Not long. Sorry, I ... uh ... I felt jittery for some reason.”

One of Crane’s eyebrows peaked with curiosity, but he thankfully didn’t ask. He waved Dahlia in, then glanced outside the front door before closing and locking it. He motioned her to take a seat in his living space. Once again, Dahlia chose the furthest seat. She kept her back rigidly upright and carefully smoothed the bangs over her forehead.

Crane chose the seat next to her. “You seem on edge tonight. Is something bothering you?”

Dahlia couldn’t hide her concern well enough. It must have been obvious, and he was probably being polite. What was there to be nervous about, really? Didn’t they build a _modicum_ of trust with one another? She smiled defeatedly and looked downwards. “I’m okay, really. I’ve just never been studied before.” A chuckle, and then, “Not that I’m aware of anyway.”

“Hm. Would you like water, or tea?”

“No, thanks. I’m alright.”

Crane nodded slowly.

Then he glanced towards one of the doors leading to another room. From her peripheral, Dahlia figured it was a guest bedroom. Crane said, “I need to prepare a few things for the study. Would you mind waiting here a few minutes?”

She didn’t know why that sounded ... uncharacteristically unprepared. “No, that’s fine. Take your time.”

Crane threw her a smile with the comment, “It’ll only be a moment or two.” And then he headed down a back hallway into a room hidden from her view. She heard the door quietly shut.

It made her measurably uneasy, waiting alone. She didn’t know what to think and felt guilty doubting him. But she couldn’t shake that feeling. _The feeling that something wasn’t quite right._

Up until that point, Nightmare was keeping rather quiet. Dahlia barely noticed her. It wasn’t too often that she got to see a domestic crow up close and personal. Smiling, she stood and slowly approached, hoping to distract herself. “Good evening, Nightmare.” She said sweetly. The bird made only a quiet squawk. After feeling comfortable enough, Dahlia reached out slowly to stroke her breast. She really didn’t know how to gauge a bird’s temperament, but she assumed it felt nice.

Suddenly, she heard the sound of a nearby door closing. Dahlia straightened out like a meerkat, heart suddenly pounding. She didn’t know why it scared her. She nearly shrieked in surprise as Nightmare then cawed loudly and took off from her perch onto the top of a bookcase.

_Why did she feel like something. Wasn’t. Quite. Right?_

The sound didn’t come from the back of the house, but rather she thought she heard it come from that same guest bedroom. The one near the bookcase Nightmare was perched upon.

It didn’t seem like the most polite or rational thing to do, but Dahlia felt herself being compelled by an inescapable curiosity. Taking a few breaths to steady herself, and a moment to assess if she could hear Crane moving around nearby, she dictated it discreet enough to proceed.

She stepped into the guest bedroom carefully, like a cat exploring an unfamiliar territory. It was mostly empty besides a twin-sized bed and some small furniture. Nothing to note. As she looked back towards the entryway, she noticed a door on the corner wall, presumably leading to the closet.

She didn’t think anything of quietly turning the knob to check inside.

How unexpected it was, that this wasn’t a door to a closet, but a door to the basement.

And an awe-inspiring sight to witness.

* * *

  
  


It was a massive space, far larger than she ever would have guessed could fit under his house.

The door led down to an industrial steel mezzanine, with matching steps leading yet further down to a wide spread of dirtied white tables. So many large vats, steel containers, chemistry knick-knacks, a few clipboards, and several piles of hand-written notes. Dahlia thought the place looked like some kind of laboratory. And although she couldn’t begin to guess what was occurring or being manufactured, she was able to distinguish a pattern in the arrangement. The tables nearer to the stairs were cleaner, and had much smaller vats and canisters neatly sorted. It came across as a study or observation area.

She was compelled to further investigate.

After descending the sharply-treaded stairs, she more closely examined the thumb-sized canisters. There were different varieties, some that looked like tiny oxygen tanks and some with short needle-like attachments. Never before had she seen something like this. What was Crane doing, making injectables or something?

Dahlia reached out to the nearest vat, cautiously and quietly. After a few moments of figuring out how it was sealed, she opened its top-loading door and peered in to see a white powder. Jesus, was it heroin? Cocaine? She was too sheltered from any drug to be able to tell. And it was odorless. Is this why Crane was getting chemicals at the university?

... Jesus, did the dean know? Did anyone? Should the police have known? What was he doing with this all? She felt as if she were going to have a panic attack. Without a moment’s pause, Dahlia closed the vat and began to rush up the stairs, her breaths becoming more rapid. She needed an excuse to leave, and fast. Maybe she got food poisoning? Maybe she just got cold feet, or perhaps she was needed at home?

She was so fixated on not tripping over the steep steps that she didn’t notice the person standing in the doorway.

And clumsily, she smacked into them. Eyes darted up to meet a scarecrow.

She screamed.

She nearly tumbled back down the steps in fright, but it grabbed her around the torso, and lifted and pulled her backwards into the spare room. She flailed her legs and continued screaming, but she couldn’t muster more.

In her thrashing, Dahlia got one free elbow to strike at the torso. The scarecrow tilted and lost its balance with a grunt, but held even tighter. The two tumbled to the floor on their sides. She tried to wriggle free but it didn’t let go! All those self-defense classes for nothing. She couldn’t feel or do anything but **panic**.

It was too severe to take and Dahlia began to feel her body weaken and become slow to respond. Like in a dream, she wished to take action but was becoming sluggish. Her muscles were paralyzed. Her heart felt like it was on fire and beating outside her skin. This pain was too much to handle. She couldn't get enough air.

The scarecrow sat up and maneuvered its torso above hers. Then it said something, muffled and distant.

But Dahlia could only hear a void.

It said something again, this time a bit clearer.

" _Don’t be afraid, Dahlia._ "

She was crying. So many tears. Finally the void faded.

" **_I want to help you._ **"

The scarecrow didn’t move but to take off its mask, revealing tousled brown locks of hair and bright blue eyes.

Her throat felt ravaged by glass. She could only manage a faint whisper.

" _... Professor Crane ... ?_ "


	10. In which business is established

She was still experiencing a panic attack, Crane identified. Poor thing. It didn’t need to be this way.

He remained knelt on the floor, but very carefully pulled her up by the hands to sit upright. His ribs ached as he moved. “Yes, it’s me. I wouldn’t hurt you.”

She was still short of breath and trembling terribly, slack-jawed and face wet with tears. Crane leaned his body into hers and wrapped his arms around her back. Her body lightly jolted at the touch, and was otherwise rigid. He said calmly, “Deep breaths, Dahlia. Follow my breathing.” And then took a large, large inhale. Held for a moment. Then exhaled slowly. He felt Dahlia’s exhale, just barely.

Another big, deep breath. She mirrored, shakily at first. They remained there for several more minutes until she became still and calm. She gave a gentle push of her cheek into his shoulder. After another few short moments, Crane finally let go and shifted away. Her dark eyes looked tired and confused.

He closed his eyes, then nodded. “What you happened upon is my personal laboratory. For psychopharmacology.” She didn’t say anything. But she wasn’t running for the door either. He continued.

“I want to share something with you ...

“When I was in high school, a group of my classmates lured me to a house party. One of the girls, pretty brunette, had been leading me along for a few weeks at that point. I didn’t know any better - I was lonely and isolated. After the handful of drinks they coerced me into, they proposed a joyride around the neighborhood. But their route kept taking us further and further from the house. I didn’t suspect anything due to the alcohol, and naivety.

“We reached an expanse of forest outside the city. And there ...”

Crane paused. He briefly observed Dahlia’s state of awareness; she seemed to be hearing him.

“... they stripped me, tied me to a fence with rope, and spray painted ... a derogatory term ... across my chest and face. I wasn’t found until three days later.”

Dahlia took a deep breath. It didn’t come across as contemptuous, but empathetic. Quietly, she was crying again. Given that she hadn’t said a word in a bit, he presumed she needed a few moments to collect her thoughts.

As if handling a newborn, Crane gingerly took her hands again. He led her up from the floor, back into the living room, and into his preferred armchair. “Take whatever time you need. When you’re ready to talk more, if you wish it, I’ll be in that far room at the end of the hallway.”

* * *

  
  


Perhaps an hour went by before Dahlia could muster the courage to stand up. There were so, so many questions circling her head, and she still couldn’t quite sort out how she felt about the whole thing, and about Crane. What did his past have to do with anything? She needed to talk this out.

Dahlia stepped quietly down the hallway. The door at the far end, at the furthest reach of the left wall, was open. A warm glow shone across the floor. The closer she got, the clearer the sound of graphite dragging across paper became.

Arriving to the door frame, she swept the room as she entered. At one end, a large cabinet, then two bookcases in the corner. They were overrun with literature and textbooks, piles having formed on the floor. In the other corner, a desk that wrapped each wall. A chair with a man seated facing away, scribbling into a notepad. She swallowed the knot in her throat. The pencil paused, was set down, and Crane turned to the side in the chair to see Dahlia.

She finally had the strength to ask a few questions. “Did you have something to do with the student attack?”

The pause wasn’t nearly long enough to feign remorse. “Yes.”

“... Were you going after them because of me?”

A lengthy pause. “Yes.” He didn't elaborate.

It took active effort not to indulge that idea further, and instead move on to another more relevant topic. The prospect frightened her to a low whisper. “What are you making downstairs?”

No pause. “Some concentrated fear pheromones, and toxins of many types. Ones that induce immediate psychosis and paranoid delusions. Also a few that replicate the neurological symptoms of Urbach-Wiethe disease, so basically the opposite effect. My particular focus is around the amygdala in particular, the emotional processor for the brain.”

Her brows furrowed. "Why did you invite me here ... ? And why did you ... ?"

Crane stood up from the chair, briefly running a hand over his ribs as he did so. "Your experiences provide the ideal background for mixing science and justice. Frailty with faculty."

Dahlia's eyes moved to the floor. She didn't know what that was supposed to mean, but somehow it stung a bit. Not because of him, but rather due to some internal resentment.

He continued: "To give you the platform to strike back at the people who would rather see you die than to see you successful. Those who step up the social ladder by vaulting over the brilliant and the gifted. I can offer you the chance to turn the tables on your tormentors. We can strike back at the world, and the cruel injustices heaped upon people like us."

More of the void echoing into Dahlia's head space. Utter madness and completely irrational, is what a lot of people would say. That's why there's a justice system with honest people operating within it; Good people, like her dad. The convicted serve their time, are issued a suitable punishment, and society continues. At least in a nutshell.

A shame that Gotham didn't subscribe to any hopeful ideals. From where she was standing, Gotham was abandoned by good people long ago.

Dahlia spoke again, finally. "Caitlin tried to pick a fight with me today ... She threatened me, and I threatened her back."

"How did it make you feel?"

Her eyes flicked back up, full of fire.

" **Spectacular.** "


	11. In which the long hunt begins

The conversation later continued in the basement. Crane sat at the edge of one of the central tables as Dahlia had free reign to investigate. It was mutually understood that if any kind of partnership were to move forward successfully, they needed to reestablish trust, starting with hers. And in a situation where most would probably have run by this point, she was willing to give it this chance. Truly, she didn't want to lose their unique bond.

Dahlia asked as her fingers traced the handle of a floor vat, "Why did you grab me?"

"You surprised me. When I returned to share this secret, you were gone. I was concerned you got the wrong impression, and you reacted before we could discuss."

Hm, she couldn't blame him she supposed. Glancing his way, Dahlia commented, "Sorry about your ribs."

"No apology needed. You're a little stronger than I'd have guessed. It's a good quality to be unexpected."

She smiled. "I used to work out a lot more than I do now. Dad also signed me up for self defense classes a long time ago. But, well ... we saw how useful that turned out to be."

Crane reassured, "We'll make sure you're better prepared next time."

"Eager to grapple with me again, huh?" Dahlia impulsively joked.

The sly comment appeared to take Crane off guard, as he slowly looked towards her with raised brows. He didn't appear readied with a reply. She moved on, and wandered towards another table with stacks of notepads. "So ... what's the idea here? What is next time?"

Now here, she thought, is where we get down to brass tacks. Everything here seemed so deliberate, surely there was an idea in mind. Crane slid off the table and into a standing position. He motioned Dahlia to walk with him. "Do you follow current events?"

With a tinge of guilt, she replied, "Somewhat, but not lately. I've had bigger problems."

"Fair enough." They ascended the stairs. "What occurs in any society is a trickle effect. Everything filters down from the top. To break the cycle, we need to prioritize the condition over the symptoms. Care to guess a diagnosis?"

Passing back into the spare room and back into the living room, she asked without any conviction, "Politicians?"

"More or less." He lead her to the front. "The mob have their hands more firmly rooted in public affairs than anyone realizes. If you want to ask yourself why things seem for the worse, look no further than the greed of men with money."

Seemed like the long night was finally coming to a close. Near the front door, Crane stopped to face Dahlia. He had gained a subtle sort of regard in his voice - she didn't really fathom that the dignified Jonathan Crane could express this kind of passion. "It will take some time. It won't be enough to just ... scare the wolves. I need to find the den and set fire to it. And fight with something more sophisticated than just firearms. Fight fear with fear."

Regardless of the intimidation Dahlia felt hearing this all, she didn't feel apprehension. Even though it was inspired on a personal level, it sounded like an ambitious idea that could benefit people like she and Crane, and the entire population of Gotham. She wasn't sure how yet, but the beats seemed sound.

"I think you and I would be able to benefit each other with this project. And I certainly couldn't trust anyone else to help me bring true justice to Gotham."

... Last chance for satisfaction, Dahlia. Are you ready to greet the first day of the rest of your life?"

She had all the information she wanted.

"Yes."

* * *

  
  


He smiled. "Good." When he reached out towards the front door, Dahlia fully expected him to open it so she could head out. But instead, he was securing several custom door locks. She only noticed now that the door knob fixture looked different than standard - he secured that last.

"I have a little surprise for you, that I think you'll enjoy."

With a bob of the head, he encouraged Dahlia to follow him again. She hoped there wouldn't be some cruel plot twist. But still she followed, back to his far office. There, Crane took a key from his pocket and unlocked the large cabinet. When he pulled each door open, fabric from within expanded. At first it just looked like an assortment of knotted cloth, but a moment later she realized she was looking at ... masks? Maybe ten or so masks, hanging on small hooks lining the cabinet walls. All earth-toned and made of flexible materials.

"Prototypes." Crane said. "Respirators with custom filters. They also serve as an emblem for something visceral for the imagination." She peaked an eyebrow at that last comment, not quite following. He clarified with emphasis, "You're the first thing someone sees after inhaling my compound. It should inspire terror."

That explained some of the stories she'd heard. He added, "Take one."

"... Am I gonna need it?"

"In several moments, yes."

* * *

  
  


A square room of steel. All metal walls, floors, and a single steel chair in the center. On one wall was an observation mirror and high-security door. On the ceiling was a hanging light fixture.

Only one other thing occupied this room. A young woman, tied to the chair. Dark makeup appeared streaked with moisture drying on her skin. At the moment, she was calm and still. Tired from fighting.

A thud from the latch across the door got her interest, and her head lifted up. But when a figure stepped through, her curiosity turned to dread. What stepped through was a thin figure in all black wearing a stitched white linen and burlap mask. The material appeared loose over the figure's head but was closer-fitting at the tailored neck. Over the beady eye holes were black sockets smearing downwards. The mouth was exaggerated with the corners pulled low, decorated with additional stitching that loosely resembled teeth.

The girl began crying at the sight of it. "I-I just want to go home. I didn't want any of this, please ..." The white mask waited. Something was clutched between its palms over the chest.

Caitlin pleaded again, wagering a guess. "Dahlia, is that you? The Scarecrow wasn't you, b-but is  _ this  _ you? Please, please help me. You can't let me die here, you can't."

Dahlia's heart was pounding hard. She didn't move, and didn't know what to say.

"Please, Dahlia, I know it's you." She sniffled and seemed able to compose herself again. "It has to be you. I knew you have some part in this. Please, you can still help me and stop all this."

Those words burned in Dahlia. Her voice was tensed, and low. "Have you ever said the word ' _ please _ ' prior to this moment?"

Caitlin reflected a mixture of emotions, her voice shaky. "What's that supposed to mean?"

The sound of Dahlia's voice was indistinguishably more confident now. It was as if something else was speaking for her, and she was happy to go for the ride. "It makes sense, now that you actually  _ need  _ something from someone else. What's the matter, Caitlin, not pretty enough to charm me out of those ropes? It's done you so well,  _ up until now that is. _ "

Caitlin lost control of her own figurative mask, and clapped back with heat, " _ It was all Natalie, everything's always her idea! _ "

" _ Tell that to everyone you've fucked over! _ " Dahlia shouted. Her hands gave a sharp twist accompanied by a hiss, and the air around them suddenly turned white. Caitlin began to cough hard, eyes watering. Dahlia wasted no time - She exploded forward and placed a hand on each of the chair's arms, fingers rapping, looming over her hostage with hungry anticipation.

When Caitlin looked up, her coughing transformed into manic screaming.


	12. In which Frank Kendrick offers a job

Today's newspaper headline plagued students of Gotham with concern. It read in bold letters, " **FIFTH GSU STUDENT ATTACK DISCOVERED, VICTIM HOSPITALIZED IN CRITICAL CONDITION.** "

After taking a sip of hot tea and sitting at the end of her bed, Dahlia folded over the section with the main story and began to read with engrossed curiosity. It was frightening, and somewhat nerve-wracking to now have a connection to such a story. But she couldn't admit to herself if she felt any guilt. It felt deserved, nearly asked for. Taunt the bull, get the horns.

Something stood out. She scrutinized the column more carefully. It mentioned that - in her hysterics - Caitlin was calling out to "a banshee." She was crying for it to stop screaming because her ears were bleeding out puss and spiders. How visceral indeed, she thought.

From what Dahlia saw in that steel room, it was a believable hallucination on Caitlin's end. All of Dahlia's frustrations welled inside and after Caitlin's first scream of terror, and she didn't know anything else to do but scream back. A piercing, furious, impulsive scream. She could barely hold back from striking with her fists.

But she did end up controlling herself, and self assured that the torment was enough. An eye for an eye, no need to be a brute about it.

With a satisfied groan, Dahlia reached both hands high above her head and stretched backwards. Then with an exhale and sigh, she relaxed and reclined on the bed. Cat chirped and hopped up with her, pressing his nose into her side affectionately.

* * *

  
  


On the following school day, Dahlia lingered behind when class was adjourned. With hushed excitement, she had raved to him about her state of mental wellness in the recent days. Not once in her life did she feel as great as she did now. It was empowering. Crane welcomed this news with with words of encouragement.

Then he approached a new subject. "Now, we need to also consider the issue of funding. It's very expensive to manufacture the compound, and we're dwindling our resources to nothing. My list of investors is short and ill-tempered, but mostly reliable when it comes to trades."

Following the conversation tone, she interjected, "So you're saying we need money ... sooner than later?"

"In a manner of speaking." Crane glanced towards the class window adjacent to the door. All clear. Then continued. "One of my vendors is in need of protection during a job. His last one was disrupted."

Crane's vocabulary was suggestive. Dahlia didn't have concrete feelings toward the clues he was dropping. "Protection during a job? Like ... a heist ... ?" She half expected it to be a joke.

"They plan to seize their assets at Gotham National Bank. A deal between colleagues turned sour or other. Not our concern, not with the GNB being secretly mob-owned. But Frank Kendrick wants to take over and have them removed."

That sounded a lot like theft with extra steps.

Dahlia inquired gently, "They're going to rob a bank?"

Then, an early student walked into the room for their next class. Without skipping a beat, without any change in his speaking volume or intonation, Crane continued the discussion. "The specific section in the library that may be relevant for your paper is 'applied psychology'. I'd recommend starting there and working your way back."

Smooth. She picked up what he was dropping. "Got it. Thanks Professor!" She lifted a hand as a wave goodbye as he nodded, and scampered out towards the library.

* * *

  
  


If her memory was accurate, Crane's last class of the day was usually about two hours long. Not a concern to Dahlia, who decided to occupy a quiet, open corner of the library just behind the psychology section. She was seated cross-legged on the floor with her bag and some papers strewn about, and chose this spot specifically to have better awareness of any inadvertent eavesdroppers.

"Very astute, Miss Rhodes." Crane approached. He gave her a short nod as greeting, then stopped to peruse a nearby shelf. More quietly, he said, "I understand your concerns, Dahlia, I do. It's an imposing thing to be involved with, but with the risk comes great reward. Jobs like this keep our ideas afloat and keeps our future clear. And jobs like this one in particular can dethrone the mob and get us one step closer to a better future."

Before she could ask any questions, he continued, "I can explain in further detail at another time, if you need. Right now I can just assure you that everything we're doing is for the greater good."

They locked eye contact. Dahlia replied with acceptance, "Okay."

* * *

  
  


About a week went by while making preparations for the Frank Kendrick job.

Dahlia and Crane had since spoken more about the ideologies of their new partnership. Really it didn't take much convincing on Dahlia's end - she felt that she could trust him implicitly now. It wasn't something she wanted to admit for fear of an inevitable falling out, like others in her life before him. But she knew that he was very, very different.

... It also helped knowing that banks had insurance through the FDIC for things like fires, floods, etc. From what she understood, it would be an impact exclusively to the bank itself and not the customers. And Crane  _ did  _ say that the GNB was mob-owned. His words checked out.

Thankfully for her, Crane had already coordinated much of the "heavy lifting." Really she wouldn't have had any idea where to begin regardless. But he left her some very specific, simple instructions:

1\. She was to arrive at his house at 2:00am on the night of the job. They'd review all the beats, the contingency plans, and then get dressed and masked. It felt silly at first, but Crane insisted on Dahlia keeping the blatancy of her identity private. Additionally, he disclaimed that the fear compound might be put to use, and it would be better to have protection for her breathing. It was a sensible reason.

2\. The next step was to equip themselves with ample supplies. Dahlia already had brief practice in deploying the compound to Caitlin. It didn't seem sufficient to Crane, so he had her practice deploying two more canisters more rapidly, both from a wrist attachment hidden under each sleeve. She picked up fast.

3\. The final steps - Don't engage in chit chat, reveal nothing about your identity, stay close, and stay hidden if anything goes wrong.

At 2:58am, Crane double-checked his watch and then motioned to Dahlia. "The car's here. Out back."

Hm, she didn't recall him having any kind of back area that a car could access. First ensuring that every bolt in the home was locked, Crane led her to the back office. No exception for that door either, he closed and secured that as well. Then by the corner buried with books, he pulled up the rug and revealed a wooden trap door. It led down to a long, long corridor illuminated with sparse lights. At the very end, Crane unlocked a steel door that lead into ... another basement?

Of the two staircases within, one led up into the side yard of a house two streets down from Crane's. That's where they finally emerged. As he re-locked the basement door from the outside, he said quietly to Dahlia, "One of my investors owns this block under a pseudonym. It granted us some neighborly leg room."

Further down on the quiet and somewhat unkempt street sat an idling black car with limousine tint. The two approached.

The Scarecrow asked, "Still ready for this?"

The Banshee replied, "Always ready."


	13. In which the Dark Knight appears

The job was a lot smaller than Dahlia would have guessed. As cavernous as this branch of the bank was, it was occupied by around five people that Dahlia counted during their walk-through. Four were hauling large bags and crates, removing them from the vault down an equally spacious back hallway. They were being taken outside through a side door. One was typing away on a rather bulky-looking laptop with some kind of antennae attachments. Cameras were already smashed and a handful of tables were pushed aside or overturned across the multi-leveled floor. All men had rifles slung across their backs and the tech sported a pistol tucked in the back of his belt.

The primary feeling that itched in Dahlia's psyche was feeling like an outsider. At least on campus, she knew the devils and their usual halfwit plots. Here, these devils were free in a world without rules or constraints, and with much more efficient tools. And they didn’t have to pretend to tolerate you or make niceties, and they certainly weren't obligated to exercise restraint. It sunk in that she was at the mercy of her own wits on  _ this  _ side of the world.

As things moved along and a few men barked orders at each other, the Scarecrow and a following Banshee moved to a spot with more seclusion near some lobby-facing offices. There, Crane said with a near whisper, “Keep alert and observant. See anything strange in the shadows or on the ceiling, let me know right away.” She nodded. Crane added, his hand moving to her shoulder, “Exhale, Dahlia. No one here presently is going to bother you.” Then he turned around and left towards the vault in the hallway.

It took a few more moments, but Dahlia realized and accepted that she was more nervous than she wanted to be. She realized she was carrying most of her weight on one leg, and was fidgeting her hands together and tracing her cuticles. Once the string of thoughts came together, she grew concerned that this might have made her appear vulnerable. Taking a deep inhale and exhale, she rolled her head in a circle, loosening up her neck. Then stood up straight with her head high, clasping her hands together comfortably. A hauler walking by gave her a curious gaze. The Banshee returned an intense stare, forcing the man to break eye contact. She was starting to feel a bit more warmth towards her fresh moniker and the courage it inspired.

... A sudden thought occurred to her ... Crane earlier said “no one here  _ presently? _ "

The loud thud of a heavy sack dropping to the floor caught her intrigue. The Banshee took no risks - she moved herself into shadow at the edges of the room. She looked back towards the hallway and saw no sign of Crane.

Another two thuds, one right after the other.

That made a pattern. What was that?

The Banshee began walking towards the noises from the comfort of the dark, noticing that the other two in the room also had concerns. Far across the space was the tech and near him another hauler. Each began exchanging words, too far away and too soft to hear. They readied their firearms.

Then a sharp, whip-like sound rang out as ceiling lights disappeared. Dahlia gasped and dropped into a low crouch by a decorative column. Instinctively she knew the sound was some kind of projectile. Light debris sprinkled across the floor.

The tech at the front desk, now crouching as well, shouted impulsively, “ _ What is that?! _ ”

From over her shoulder, she heard Crane’s voice respond.

“The Bat-man.”

* * *

  
  


A few seconds later and another row of ceiling lights were taken out, small sparks sprouting from each lamp destroyed. The area was drowned in darkness. A metal object clinked somewhere on the travertine floor. The Banshee scanned the floor with squinted eyes, but the Scarecrow had no need for confirmation. He knew exactly what this presence was.

The tech cried out as he was lifted towards the ceiling at breakneck speed. The only hauler left in sight shot off several rounds into the ceiling from his M16, which made Dahlia jump in surprise. Hearing a shift from behind, Dahlia glanced over her shoulder to see that the Scarecrow had disappeared from her sight as well. A moderate dose of panic shot into her veins.

Another clatter, this time of the hauler’s rifle to the floor. Her head whipped forward just in time to see a dark figure pummeling him towards the floor. The area was quiet again.

And the Banshee realized that she was alone with the Batman.

For this first time ever, she saw him in person, as clear as the night allowed. All black armor, two pointed ears atop the dome, just like in the sketches. And two dark and sullen eyes buried deep in the void. On paper, Dahlia remembered that the Batman sounded so puerile and superstitious. In the flesh, it was very much real and spine-chilling.

And then he began to approach her, taut lips pulling into a scowl.

Her fear begged her to look away, but she was locked on him, mesmerized by the beastly predator. Her body urged her to stay down and move away, but she slowly stood tall and straight, arms at the sides, ready to meet him head on.

But the opportunity was halted.

The Scarecrow popped up behind a nearby table and moved quickly to the Batman's flank. The caped crusader turned with an arm up and at the ready. Instead of a physical conflict as the Batman might have been expecting, a plume of white smoke hissed into his face. He drew back with knees bent, remaining on his feet but with eyes now casting scattered looks. They were wide with confusion. The Scarecrow slowly walked forward, hunching slightly to gaze the Batman in the face. The dark knight jerked backwards.

The Scarecrow boomed confidently, " **Ahh, something wrong?** " The Batman tripped down a short series of steps between levels, and continued to desperately push himself backwards while waving an arm about the air. " **Seems like something's bothering you.** " The Scarecrow followed carefully, his route as tactful as a herding dog moving livestock. Dahlia was entranced by the unfolding scene, feet locked to the floor, heart beating hard.

Partway through the hall, the Scarecrow said menacingly, " **You look like you could use some quality time by yourself to sort out your feelings.** "

Near the open vault door, the Scarecrow rushed forward at the Batman. There was no need for physical contact - the Bat scrambled backwards in panic. He tripped over the lip of the door and tumbled into the vault. Without wasting a moment, the Scarecrow grabbed the heavy door and yanked it shut with all his might.

What snapped Dahlia back to reality was Crane grabbing her wrist and pulling her quickly to the side door. With a more familiar tone of voice, he instructed, "We've done enough for now. Time to fly."

Outside lay the last hauler Dahlia recalled seeing, unconscious on the pavement. Crane paid him no mind and jumped right into the driver's seat of the getaway van, finding the keys on the dashboard. She didn't know why this unconscious man bothered her, but it gave her pause. It took a firm "Get in!" from Crane to snap her back again.

Dahlia got in on the passenger side of the van. As soon as the door shut, they sped off.

* * *

  
  


The rest of the night was a blur. She waited in the van, still masked and watching through the side mirror, while Crane exchanged pleasantries with a man Dahlia hadn't seen before. Men were unloading the haul and inspecting all items. Everyone seemed a bit ... rushed. She felt disassociated from it all, as if she were merely a distant spectator.

When the last crate was moved, Crane - also masked still - approached Dahlia's door and opened it. "Come on. We're catching a new ride back."

This car dropped them off at Crane's front porch.

* * *

  
  


Inside they removed their masks, undressed their extra layers, and found some time to unwind. Outside, the sky was turning a light orange.

They both moved with sluggish exhaustion. Crane filled the food bowl attached to Nightmare's perch with a nut and blueberry assortment before dropping into his favorite chair. Dahlia was in the seat next to him, head propped up with her knuckles. What an exhausting evening it was.

"You should feel proud."

Slowly she lifted her face up to look at him. Dahlia had fully expected some kind of scolding with her wandering at the GNB, and her lack of action with the Batman. But his voice was ... sweet, and reassuring. "The events tonight weren't anticipated quite so, eh, vividly. You handled yourself well. I apologize for putting you through that."

"It wasn't your fault," she replied, voice low and raspy with fatigue. "There are almost three million people in Gotham. How could we have known he'd be here tonight? I'm just sorry I didn't do more. I didn't even think to act and as a result, you had to bail me out."

Crane's brows furrowed. He sat upright and reached a hand out over Dahlia's. "And as long as you're with me, I'll make sure you're  _ always  _ bailed out."

Dahlia paused before her lips formed a small smile. That helped make her feel better. After the moment passed, Crane stood and yawned. "I'd recommend laying low and getting some rest here before heading home. You can take the spare room."

She didn't make anything of it. "Okay."

With a nod, he headed back to his own bedroom and closed the door. After a couple of contemplative minutes, she stood and headed to the guest bed.


	14. In which the wheel of fortune turns

The Frank Kendrick job had now taken place about two months ago. The Batman wasn’t reported as discovered, so Crane figured he found a way out of the vault. No surprise there, as he was rather tenacious. It wouldn’t be the last they saw of him.

This semester of classes was nearing its close and the students were eager for a long break, as were the staff. The attacks had everyone on edge and campus security had since acquired a strengthened presence, but otherwise it was business as usual. Crane didn’t feel any particular way about things. It just meant he needed to readjust his availability for other projects.

As of late, he began to really notice the potential that Dahlia provided. Her behavioral development was productive. Lately she seemed like a renewed person - there were more smiles, more dialogue, and a certain ease he’d never known her to possess. No one on campus would have guessed how sharp-witted and charismatic she actually was. It was difficult for him to admit that he trusted her to rise to any occasion. Additionally, the facade she wore for the world had finally dropped in his presence. It wasn’t as slow a process as he might have guessed either. The only person that called Crane by his first name was Dean Dreier. Now, so did Dahlia. She seemed to just test it out one day, and he found it oddly refreshing to hear someone so casually call him “Jon.”

Pleasantries aside, several small and low-risk jobs had come in over the last two months. Meetings and personnel management, mostly. Crane made sure to handle the big picture items, but brought Dahlia along as often as feasible. He wanted her to be a known presence. And refreshingly found her to be a quick and eager learner.

This shift of lifestyle seemed to affect her positively too. When she began showing up at his house in track pants and old t-shirts, Dahlia told him that she began taking urban defense classes. He rewarded her proactive attitude with a monetary bonus from his own cache, which at first was refused. She said she wasn’t interested in the money. It didn’t take much persuasion to get her to think of it as a business investment - the funds could support continued defense classes and perhaps some less ragged and more presentable clothing. Everyone deserved some semblance of comfort, he reassured. Meekly, she accepted.

Regardless of all manner of dangerous comforts, he felt things were going according to plan.

* * *

  
  


This evening when Crane opened his door, Dahlia wasn’t in track pants or a dirty t-shirt. It took him entirely off-guard to see that she took him up on his recommendation and got new clothes. Specifically, a skin-tight athletic sports tank and spandex leggings.

She didn’t seem to notice his surprise. “Hey!” Cheerfully she greeted, and moved past him to enter. Crane’s eyes briefly traveled down her figure as she headed in. He closed and locked the door, and began securing its bolts.

After plopping her small duffel bag behind a chair, Dahlia headed to the kitchen and called back, “So I learned something interesting today. This is maybe ten years ago or something around there.” From the fridge, she grabbed a bottle of water. “Some retired professor of psychology trained his border collie to identify over one thousand toys by name. One thousand!” Dahlia walked back out as Crane secured the last lock. She continued, “That dog understood a bigger vocabulary than some of the people attending our school.”

Crane smiled as he approached her, hands slipping into his pockets. “Not everyone there can be graced with genius mentorship, and the other half would crumble under the weight of their realized inadequacy.”

She gave a short and honest laugh, and had no clever rebuttal. When Crane got closer, he was still smiling. She had practiced many things in the last several months, but hiding her emotions was still an area of opportunity: Her cheeks flushed. He said quietly, “You look good.”

Smiling back and holding the water bottle to her lips, Dahlia replied with sincerity, “Thank you. And thank you for your support.” Their eyes didn’t leave each other as she took a sip from the bottle and swallowed. He felt like she was ... daring him to do something.

A few contemplative moments later, Crane broke eye contact as he glanced towards his office. Then, back to Dahlia. “I have some sudden news. We were urged to meet with Frank Kendrick for another job, which seems to be of some urgency to him.”

Hesitation was no longer a quality of Dahlia’s during these discussions. She’d had sufficient practice. “Oh, okay. What’s it for?”

“That’s what we’re about to find out two streets down.”

* * *

  
  


No masks were ever worn to business meetings. Crane thought that the other party might consider it threatening and become hostile. In order to forge professional trust, he always showed his bare face. And tonight, he asked Dahlia to do similarly. She agreed, even after he warned that people may start to recognize her. But that particular fear was no longer relevant for her. She almost welcomed it.

The meeting was to be held at the second house on the second floor, in a secured room. By the time they got there, a disgruntled looking man was waiting in one of four chairs near an empty desk. He was stocky, balding, and middle-aged man of average height in an expensive suit. The small eyes hidden behind oval glasses didn’t look friendly. A bodyguard accompanied him and was standing watch at the door.

" **Hey Crane!** " The stocky man called, his voice thick and loud. “Finally decide to show up?”

Crane entered the room, followed by Dahlia, who had been sizing up the bodyguard. At the last several meetings, Crane had her stand at the back of the room. Tonight, he motioned her to follow him. They passed him and took their seats behind the desk. The man’s eyes followed Dahlia only. She recognized him now as the man from the van’s rear-view mirror. The bodyguard outside now stood at the inside of the door.

“Calm yourself, Mr. Kendrick. We don’t need derelicts eavesdropping.”

Frank Kendrick’s round face wrinkled and he gestured a palm to the girl. “What’s with the kid?”

Dahlia’s sudden irritation urged her to speak out, but Crane leaned forward and answered first. “Surely you recognize the Banshee, Mr. Kendrick. Miss Dahlia Rhodes will only be treated with the same respect offered to myself. She’s as much use to anyone as I am.” During the pause, Dahlia inspected Kendrick’s reaction. He didn’t seem to agree with that statement - hell, neither did she - but he moved along civilly to get to the point.

“I need this job done as soon as possible. Tonight.”

“What's so important?” Crane replied almost too quickly. The perception came across as impatience.

Kendrick didn’t falter. “I need my wife taken care of. All there is to it.”

A sharp exhale left Crane's nostrils. “We don’t handle personal affairs, Mr. Kendrick.”

His eyes moved between Crane and Dahlia. After moistening his lips, he said, “I’ll pay you one million. Easy job, no legwork. I can tell you exactly where she’ll be tonight. In and out. No mess.”

 _One million?!_ Dahlia had to consciously focus on keeping her facial expression neutral. That amount of money was difficult to fathom. It made her curious as to what their takeaway was from the first Frank Kendrick job. In a moment, Crane looked over his shoulder to her. It took another moment to infer that he may have been seeking feedback. She wasn’t really sure what the vetting thought process was for work, so figured she’d probe.

Carefully.

Dahlia raised her head high and authoritatively looked back to Kendrick, Crane mirroring. Then she asked, “If we’re considering getting personal, we need to be fully informed.”

Clearly not a fan of hers, Kendrick exhaled sharply and said, “She’s been creepin’ behind my back with another man. Not sure who yet.”

Dahlia remained silent, and Crane seemed to now be following her lead. One of her brows peaked, waiting for elaboration. Kendrick was visibly irked. But he continued. “She thinks I’m out of town on business. She’ll be at my home with the other man, I’m sure of it. I want ’em both taken care of.”

They let a moment pass. Crane never looked back to Dahlia, but also said nothing. She rolled with it, and continued. “You said the job was only for her, not him. And why not use a gun? Why come to us and drop that kind of money?”

Leaning forward aggressively, Kendrick answered, “I came to _Crane_ because I don’t _want_ her dead. Dead’s too good for _any_ no-good broad.” The way he said that comment got to Crane. A subtle twitch hit his eyebrow. “Nah, I want something more than dead. I want her to be afraid every single day for the rest of her life. Her and her creep.”

Dahlia by now had made up her mind. But before she could voice an opinion, Crane took back the reins.

“Very well, Mr. Kendrick. We accept.”


	15. In which Amelia Kendrick incurs a job

_ “No wonder she cheats on him. He’s repulsive.” _

_ “Easy, Dahlia.” _

The drive to Kendrick's house was ample time for Dahlia to have calmed down from her momentary tirade. Six men, one Scarecrow, and one Banshee rocked gently in the back of the van as it navigated the streets leading out of the metro area.

_ “Why did we accept a personal job?” _

_ “Wait. And trust me.” _

There wasn't an option but to trust him. They were almost there.

Frank Kendrick’s small mansion bore some good similarities to the Gotham landmark Wayne Manor - It was large, lavish, and luxurious. The neo-Gothic building straddled a short hill just outside the city, and was surrounded by trees and a simple security gate. When the van reached the intercom, Crane’s man behind the wheel exchanged a few words with the voice and then the gate opened. Passed the massive lawn of freshly-cut grass and coniferous shrubs, they reached the driveway. There, Frank Kendrick arrived to greet them with two bodyguards.

He didn’t waste time. “Good! C’mon, c’mon! Get out and get that van out of sight.”

The crew emptied the van before it drove off as instructed. Headed up to the front steps, Dahlia noticed a certain gait to Crane that she hadn’t recognized before. Although she never gave it thought, she realized she was used to him moving in perhaps a purposeful but relaxed way. Currently, he was moving with a bit more urgency, such as standing up quickly and feet hitting the ground a bit more firmly as they walked. It came across to her as impatient or annoyed. With the masks on she couldn’t really tell, but made that guess. He definitely seemed preoccupied tonight.

Inside the front doors sat a spacious open area with warmly painted walls and detailed crown moulding. The foyer housed oppositely matching and rounded staircases leading up to a mezzanine, and underneath was a space that traveled to a central seating area. From there, two grand hallways split an east and west wing. There were an unusually small number of guards scattered about - two at the entrance, one at Kendrick’s side, and one atop the mezzanine that Dahlia recognized from their previous meeting with Kendrick. At the base of the staircases, the Scarecrow waved an arm on the side Banshee walked on, briefly motioning towards the steps. She accepted the instruction and ascended. The six bodyguards that Crane brought were scattered between the foyer and sitting room, with one keeping close watch towards the stairs as Dahlia's support.

The familiar guard at the top was now sizing the Banshee up as she approached. He’d never seen her in full “uniform” before, which mixed utility and theater. Simple black and fitted clothing, lightweight shrouds draping the shoulders, cinched at the waist and hanging to the shins, flexible boots, and that creepy, white, screaming mask. She stared the guard back, until reaching the balcony's edge, where she kept a watchful eye on Crane.

The instant the Scarecrow and Frank Kendrick were seated, the mask spoke first. “So I assume you know who Mrs. Kendrick has been sneaking off with?”

Kendrick didn’t perceive the correct inference from Crane’s tone of voice. He replied ignorantly, “Y’gonna find out. Now listen, in about ten m-”

Coldly and bluntly, the Scarecrow stated with emphasis, “That would be  **Paul Herald** .”

They were silent. The two guards in the foyer, still in audible distance of the conversation, shifted. She figured this was some sort of conflict of interest. Maybe a friend? And also wondered what Crane’s plan was. Finally, Kendrick spoke as several beads of sweat formed on his forehead. “ _ My _ Paul, business partner Paul? You ain’t in a position to make jokes here, pal. Knock it off.”

The Scarecrow’s next statement was especially cold and hostile. Even with the words directed at another person, it made Dahlia uncomfortable.

“ **What makes you think that I possess an ounce of humor?** ”

The house was silent. Outside, the sound of a large engine approached.

The Scarecrow was motionless in his reclined position. “Is it because you  _ want  _ it of me, because you don’t see me for the true authority your colleagues do? Are we a joke to you? Fun guys in masks can’t be scary to people like you, yeah. Not to the real cog-turners and world-builders. You’re the real backbone of this city, with all your  _ wealth  _ and  _ intellect _ .”

Crane jerked his hand into the air and made a quick circling motion. Kendrick’s bodyguards had visibly been bracing for this possible outcome, as Crane’s men attacked them. In the scuffle, the familiar bodyguard atop the mezzanine hastily approached the Banshee, who turned just in time to be grabbed at the front shoulder. Controlling her adrenaline, she grabbed his hand from her opposite side and turned sharply sideways. Her body forced the guard’s arm to lock out straight, which she rapidly broke with a heavy elbow strike. The guard shouted with pain just as the Banshee released him. She took a wobbly hop back and threw a hard kick into his back. The man was propelled forward and tumbled over the railing and to the floor below.

Somewhat shocked at what just occurred, Dahlia rushed to the edge and peered down to see him unconscious. Kendrick’s men in the foyer were now splayed across the floor. Then turning and heading back around, the men in the sitting room were also down.

Frank Kendrick let the concern finally seep in, and dove a hand inside his jacket. The Scarecrow reacted too quickly for him, and lunged forward with arm outstretched. With a hiss, the white smoke discharged into the area around them. Kendrick’s wheezing and coughing, with eyes tightly shut and irritated, distracted him enough for the Scarecrow to roughly root around in his pocket and pull out a pistol.

After turning it in his hands, the Scarecrow gave a hard smack of the pistol’s grip to the man’s temple. “ **_How unprofessional, Frank. I thought we agreed on no guns?_ ** " Finally Kendrick’s eyes had opened, and his open-mouthed breathing became more heavy and shaken. The Scarecrow slowly rose to a fully standing position.

" **_You agree to a lot of things without fulfilling your terms, eh? Such as transferring ownership of your newly acquired banking business to Mr. Paul Herald, per your undisclosed contract with him. Rather you'd falsely accuse your most esteemed and powerful vendor of theft. Wait for someone to take the middle man out, huh? That's not very professional at all, Frank. I'm the one ally you should have been investing in above all others._ ** "

Water had begun to form at the corners of Kendrick’s eyes. He tried to scramble backwards from his chair but wasn’t able to find his route. Every muscle in his body was tensed and hardly responsive. His eyes moved up towards the mezzanine, to the Banshee, standing menacingly above.

" **_So like I said, Frank - We don’t do personal jobs._ ** "

Kendrick’s eyes moved back to the Scarecrow. He began to mutter, fighting to say or vocalize anything.

" **But after Amelia and I cleared up the misunderstanding ... I couldn’t resist.** "

The Scarecrow lurched forward, and finally Kendrick screamed.

* * *

  
  


“Listen, I can’t thank you enough for your stellar work. And such style too!”

Amelia Kendrick was a pretty older woman with a thick Tennessee accent, weighty chest, and four-inch stilettos. She and a trim, sharply-dressed Paul Herald had arrived to the property about thirty minutes after Frank Kendrick began to lose his mind.

Crane and Dahlia spoke unmasked with Amelia as the men were packing up payment from the Kendrick house with Herald's direction. Her bright pink lips were smiling the entire time, reminding Dahlia of a flight attendant. “Really, love it. It's ingenious. Frank should have learned to respect that a long time ago, if he wasn’t such a dang bastard.” She looked over to Dahlia and beamed with warmth. A manicured, motherly hand reached out and affectionately stroked her hair. “Sugar, I hope you never have to make such a mistake like I did. Woman to woman, I can assure you - If you don’t like the road you’re walkin', start pavin' another one.” She couldn't make a judgement call on Amelia's moral character, but regardless, she knew she liked her.

"And ..." Amelia took a moment to shamelessly peruse the space between her breasts. "... it never hurts to have a good insurance policy." And out came a knife, from where only Paul Herald knew. A thin, folding 6-inch blade with a rose gold handle. Dahlia accepted with a smile and thankful nod. She really liked Amelia.

Glancing to Crane, Dahlia noticed that he still seemed preoccupied. He wasn't smiling and hadn't been very talkative. Saying her goodbyes, Amelia touched Dahlia's shoulders and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She blushed. Then Amelia did the same for Crane, patting his chest as she leaned back. "Please let me know if ya'll ever need anythin' at all. Ya'll have my full endorsement."


	16. In which ruminations spiral

Class was dismissed for the semester!

Things were rather rocky for a while concerning Dahlia's school performance, but overall she felt her final grades would be fine. She also recognized that it didn't matter so much to her anymore.

At Crane's house, Dahlia was helping to bring in a couple stacks of paperwork and some assorted crates of supplies. Once the last of several box hit the floor, Dahlia closed the door and joined Crane in the living room, who had slouched down in his favorite chair. Nightmare was resting quietly on the perch behind him, her feathers rustling briefly before settling again. Dahlia noticed that some of the other chairs had been replaced by a chaise sofa. "Nice furniture. Comfy?"

Sluggishly, he motioned for her to try. With a gentle belly flop, Dahlia fell into it. Very soft and comfortable, indeed. Rolling onto her back, she added, "I like it! Anyway, what's the update?"

There was a hesitation. Crane said, "Have you ever heard of a man named Richard Dodge?" She shook her head, and he clarified, "Dodge is an  _ infamous  _ name. He owns several shipping and logistics companies, some of which are headquartered here in Gotham. He can move anything anywhere. To boot, one of his companies is contracted with the city and provides the fleet that accounts for half of Gotham's waste management."

"So, someone we should be close with?" Dahlia questioned.

He nodded slowly. "He's a brute that's half as clever as he believes himself to be. But we need him on our side right now. And if he's looking to hire outside help, he's desperate. Which is why I want you to talk to him."

That sentence startled her. "By myself?"

Crane assured while rubbing his left temple, "He's more agreeable when dealing with strong women. My men will be with you, at your beck and call, and will pull you out if there's any turn of events. I have an urgent matter to attend - something that affects our livelihood - otherwise I'd be there." He awaited some sort of confirmation before continuing. Eventually, she nodded, still listening intently. He continued. "The harbor, western basin, at dock H, tonight at midnight. Not that you need to know any of that - The driver will be familiar with the area. Just make sure you get the facts out of Dodge and letting him know that we'll be in touch."

It didn't sound so bad. "Okay." A few signs indicated to Dahlia that Crane may not have been feeling well. "Are you okay? You seem tired."

After an exhale, he nodded. "Been busy for the last several days, and I've been experiencing insomnia." His cheek rested against his knuckles.

"Want me to take off so you can rest?"

"Up to you. I'm not going to be able to sleep regardless, but our work for the day is finished."

Dahlia had an idea. "Do you ever get tired of working?" Crane's response was in the form of a questioning stare. "I mean, don't you ever take a break, go have some fun?"

With a tinge of humor, he replied, "I don't know the meaning of the word."

Dahlia asserted as she stood, "Well, then  _ I'll _ teach you for once. C'mon. Let's go grab a bite to eat and do something."

He couldn't help but chuckle, and shake his head. After another pause he chuckled again before asking, "What company could I possibly be to you?"

Boy, he seemed to be of a strange mood lately, she thought. But it didn't put her off. Whatever he seemed to be distracted by lately was something she wanted to help with. With affectionate emphasis, she returned a question. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Another sigh, of playful defeat. "What exactly did you have in mind?"

* * *

  
  


First they had lunch at a Jewish deli near the Museum District. She ordered a Greek salad. He got a Reuben sandwich and a cup of coffee. After getting some protein down , Dahlia noticed his energy pick up. During a break in conversation, Crane took a sip of his half-finished coffee and asked, "So, how's social life been lately? Any new observations?"

Taking a moment to finishing chewing and swallowing, she replied, "It's awesome. I'm not getting any special attention, no jabs, people actually apologize if they bump into me. I mean now that the semester's done, it's hard to tell if it'll stick. But ... I think I've changed too, for the better. And I think that's helping how I carry myself in public. Maybe influencing the way people perceive me."

"I'd agree with that." She smiled warmly. "People are generally intimidated by those who exude confidence. There's some validity to the phrase 'fake it 'til you make it'."

She mused. "Hm. I still can't tell if I'm faking it or not."

"You're not." He answered.

Confident or otherwise, she still didn't like talking about herself that much. While she had him at ease, she wanted to broach a subject she had been curious about for a while. A cautious glance around to make sure no one was in earshot, then she asked, "So where did the 'Scarecrow' come from? What inspired it?"

He took another sip of coffee before answering nonchalantly. "Once when I was sixteen, I was tied up to a wooden post and my clothes were stuffed with straw. I'm guessing they found out I grew up in the country and took inspiration. It inspired me to bring it full circle."

She took pause to take that in, feeling a bit bad for asking. But hoping to turn things around, she carried on. "Is that when you began developing your formula?"

With eyes fixed in the distance, Crane shook his head. "Hmm, nah. I only began developing that perhaps ten years later. So ... two years ago now."

Their age gap was suddenly placed into perspective for Dahlia, who was just shy of legal drinking age. She moved along. "Did you ever get back at them?"

He smiled suggestively as he took another bite of his sandwich. "Mm hm."

Ah, he would make her ask. She went for the bait. "How?"

After swallowing, Crane replied dryly, "Smith & Wesson."

A pause. He didn't seem to feel an ounce of apprehension towards the implication that was set in front of them. Dahlia couldn't tell if he was being serious or not. It felt genuine, but threw her with how casual it came across. It was as casual as dropping a brick on the table. Maybe he wasn't kidding. Either way ... she guessed it didn't matter. Because after a few moments, she realized she didn't actually feel bad.

"Sounds like they deserved whatever came to them."

* * *

  
  


The science center wasn't too busy on this day, only a few scattered groups of visitors were roaming the exhibits. Although Crane's specialty was in psychology, he still surprised Dahlia with his general knowledge across other branches of science. He was able to elaborate on half of the displays that they read, and could name every element in the living periodic table.

Near the end of their self-led exploration was the planetarium. They caught a laser show and lucked out in having the entire auditorium to themselves. Classic rock and psychedelic music blasted as the domed screen displayed all kinds of visual wonders from sweeping views of nebulas to rhythmic geometric patterns. Dahlia couldn't help but lean forward in awe.

And Dahlia's senses were so dazzled that she hadn't noticed Crane observing her for nearly the entire duration of the show. After a bit of time, she finally reclined back and felt something resting on the back of her chair. Glancing to her free side, she saw Crane's outstretched hand adjust and rest on her shoulder. His slender fingers gently played with a section of her hair.

When she cautiously looked towards him, heart aflutter, he was looking at the screen, his eyes reflecting the changing colors of the presentation.

* * *

  
  


After the show and in the presence of a setting sun, the two found themselves in line at a nearby coffee shop. Crane's tired body was craving more caffeine and she was happy to have any excuse to be around. Once he received his beverage and was dressing it at a nearby counter, she asked, "Want to head back?"

He shrugged as the cup lifted to his lips, other hand resting in his pocket. "Dealer's choice. I'm yours for the day." His elbow moved outwards, creating a suggestive gap between his arm and body. Dying of girlish embarrassment, Dahlia looped her arm under his. There were so, so many questions she wanted to ask. But she wanted to enjoy this day for what it was.

Once they stepped outside, a frozen jolt shot into Dahlia's chest. Her father was outside speaking with another police officer, a cup of coffee in each of their hands. She unhooked her arm from Crane's quickly, and after an excruciating second of rapid problem solving, decided to say hello.

"Hey, Babygirl!" Lou called with a wave once he noticed her approaching.

She gave him a hug from the side. "Hey, Dad!" Then a nod to the officer he stood with. "Hi, Jay."

Jerome Munroe was Lou's partner, and one of her favorite people. He was young and sharply inquisitive, and a great pupil for her father. A long time ago, she suspected that he may have felt one way or another about her. Nothing was ever hinted at, so she never had given it a second thought. But strangely, she remembered it now. Jay replied to her greeting, his voice bright and friendly, "Good evening, D. What're you up to tonight?"

"Oh," she began, casually, "not much. Had a free day, figured I'd celebrate the semester finishing." Acknowledging finally that she couldn't brush her company under the rug, Dahlia turned back and motion to Crane, who had stayed back. As he approached, she introduced him. "This is, uh, Jonathan Crane. A friend."

Like a switch, Crane was alight with warmth and smiled to the group. He offered out his hand. "Officers, nice to meet you." First he shook Jay's hand, who had no adverse reaction.

Then he shook Lou's, who didn't smile but rather stretched the corners of his lips outwards. "Yeah, I remember you." The tone was friendly enough, but Dahlia knew her father's subtleties better than anyone. She could tell right away that he didn't like Crane. He continued, "You found her cat a while back. Said you were a school pal?" For a brief moment, he looked Crane up and down. "Good-looking young man, I'll give ya that, but you're too old to be a student."

There wasn't an ounce of resistance in Crane's voice when he replied. "I'm a university instructor. I teach and study psychology." With a smile, he added, "Among the youngest of Gotham's faculty staff, I'd bet. The young will always stand in the shadows of their elders, huh?"

Lou didn't react. "Uh huh."

Dahlia wasn't sure what to think or how to react, but she knew she wanted to separate their groups immediately. She interjected with just a bit too much cheer, "It was nice to bump into you guys! Gotta catch the train home before it gets too late."

Jay offered sincerely, "We could give you a lift if you need?" Dahlia noticed that Lou and Crane had been watching each other.

"It's okay, we'll catch our own ride. But thank you." A soft brush of her elbow against Crane's arm called him to follow her away. "See you later!" Another big smile emerged from Crane as he bid them farewell, then he and Dahlia turned to walk in the opposite direction. She didn't see Crane's face revert back to stone.

Lou called after, "See you home later tonight?"

Dahlia glanced over her shoulder hurriedly and stuttered, "Y-Yeah. See you later, dad."


	17. In which a meeting is concluded

“Dahlia, breathe.”

Her face was buried in her palms while slumped on the floor of Crane’s kitchen. The strength had drained from her legs. Her chest hurt so much - she didn’t know why, but she felt as if she were in tremendous danger. She couldn’t catch her breath between gentle sobs, trembling. Finally, she managed to mutter, “Oh Jesus, oh Jesus. Does he know? Jon, does he know? Is he  _ mad  _ at me? ...”

Both of Crane’s gentle hands were at her shoulders. “He’s mad at  _ me _ , Dahlia, not you. Breathe.”

For some reason the comment just upset her more. A cold chill ran through her body and she struggled again to inhale. Finally, Crane sat on the tile floor with her, and adjusted his position to be side-by-side. His arms wrapped around her and he held her close. “Follow me,  _ breathe _ . Let’s count to 10.”

She followed, very roughly at first. But he kept holding her and continued, softly counting after each exhale. By the time he reached 10, she finally felt like oxygen was hitting her lungs. Each breathe became more stable and heavy. Weakly she asked the void, “What’s wrong with me?”

While one hand rubbed her side, his other carefully wiped some moisture from her face. “An anxiety disorder, I think.”

She spoke calmly and freely, face still expressing anguish. “My hands feel like ice.”

Crane’s hands moved to hers and massaged them carefully, squeezing rhythmically from the palms to the fingers. “You’re alright, Dahlia. You’re safe.” She weakly leaned against him, continuing to make manual efforts to breathe.

* * *

  
  


Two of Crane’s men in the front seats of the SUV quietly spoke with each other. The next two in the middle seats were silent. In the back, alone, sat the Banshee. Who had been brooding and silent all night with them so far. And on this same night, one dared to begin a conversation. A man in the middle seats turned to the side. After giving her a look that she didn’t care for, he asked, “You know if you screw this up, we’re out a lot of money. Dodge don’t pay no chump money. You gonna be able to handle this, Little Miss?”

In no time, the Banshee was inches from his face and an object was pressed to his neck, creating a divot in the skin.

“Would you like to find out for yourself, if I can handle it?”

With a small smirk, he replied, “No, ma’am. I’m good.”

The Banshee didn’t move for a moment. Then she reclined back, and swung her legs up atop the back of the middle seats. She deliberately struck him in the back of the head as she swung one boot over the other. Much to her disappointment, there was no rebuttal. The knife Amelia Kendrick gifted was tucked back into her waistband. She wasn't sure what came over her to act that way and on such impulse, but the strangeness of it was quickly buried by the commitment of the job.

Theirs was the second SUV that arrived at the designated space at the docks, concealed between a nearly endless yard of shipping containers. Three men exited the van and began to scout and secure the perimeter. Once they got a signal, the rest followed. The Banshee stepped out last. As she did, the other vehicle’s door opened and out spilled Dodge’s crew. From the passenger side door emerged a young man in a tan suit. He was pale and thin, with a round face and rosacea speckling his cheeks. As he and Banshee approached each other, the pale man spoke first, his voice tinny and youthful. "I thought we were meeting with Jonathan Crane, not a lost girl."

She couldn't tell if Crane deliberately didn't tell them, if it slipped his mind, or if this guy was just being an asshole. Regardless, Dahlia took a half moment to stifle her growing anger towards all of the men around her. Then she responded, professionally, "Dr. Crane apologizes for not being here tonight. But he can assure that you'll be well taken care of by his second-in-command."

It felt really good to say that.

Based off just a hunch, Dahlia wondered if this was Dodge himself. She couldn't see this tiny man being such an imposing figure. Someone with so much wealth and power surely would have better manners, right? The person in front or her seemed like a stunted accountant. It was a risk, but she took it. "So, where is your employer?" Her masked head bobbed slightly to the side.

The pale man waited a beat before turning and motioning towards their SUV. The back door opened and out stepped a distinguished looking man. She knew that this was, without a doubt, Richard Dodge. And he was a handsome man - Late thirties or early forties, a strong jawline and cheekbones, tan and glowing skin, clean-shaven, broad shoulders. Jokingly, Dahlia wondered to herself if she had seen him before on the cover of a men's health magazine.

Like several other men before him, Richard Dodge's gaze didn't leave the Banshee as he approached the circle. But unlike others, he wore a pleased smile - showcasing perfectly straight white teeth - and didn't gawk. Once close enough to the pale man, Dodge planted a hand on his shoulder and said with a mature voice, "Mr. Reid, I hope you're behaving yourself in front of the fairer sex." The pale man stepped back.

"Richard Dodge. Pleasure to meet you!" He offered his hand. The Banshee accepted. And when their hands clasped, Dodge closed his opposite hand around hers during their shake. "Pity that Dr. Crane couldn't make it, I was looking forward to meeting the maker of nightmares. But I'm equally enthused to be graced by the presence of the Banshee. I gotta say, you're much more entrancing in person."

Dahlia slid her hand away from both of his. She didn't know how to respond, so simply didn't. "Onto business, Mr. Dodge."

Nodding and waving Mr. Reid away, Dodge replied, "Yes, let's!" the pale man clearly took some offense, and turned and walked away with a poorly disguised sulk. Dodge explained,

"I'm sure Dr. Crane must have filled you in on my entrepreneurial ambitions. But just in case he didn't - I recently acquired a line of nationwide department stores, called Fentons. And up until recently, we've been doing well in Gotham. But Killinger's is doing us one better. I'm not sure where they're getting their stocks from to be able to afford keeping things so cheap, but I'm sad to report that it's working in taking our customers."

At this point, Dodge took a step closer to the Banshee. She in turn took a step back to maintain the comfort of the distance. Dodge gave an amused chuckle, then continued, "I need Killinger's to be outed as a place where dangerous people shop. Maybe ..." he shrugged, and suggested, "there's an anonymous gang raid, and maybe the building's torn apart by some sore connection. Maybe a terrorist attack scares the public into believing that their spent dollars had funded more weapons flooding into their streets. I'm not the sharp one here though, that's up to brilliant minds of both yourself and Dr. Crane."

His flattery went no where. The Banshee succinctly queried, "When does this need to take place?"

"Any time within the next month. Preferably a weekend and during the day, for max payoff and to avoid the Batman as much as possible."

The thought of terrorizing innocent shoppers didn't sit well with Dahlia at all. He thankfully made no mention of harm coming to these people. The ball was in their court, after all. Only one thing stood out to Dahlia to clarify. "When will we be paid?"

"Half now, half later. And ... I'd be happy to throw in a  _ really  _ nice dress that I think you'd like."

The Banshee didn't respond. It didn't seem to bother Dodge one bit.

Offering his hand again, he asked, "Do we have a deal?"

There were probably a few more questions she could have asked, but each second that passed became a trying experience. Reaching a hand out, the Banshee replied, "We have an  _ understanding _ , Mr. Dodge. Dr. Crane will be in touch with you soon." Then she gave a firm handshake and turned back towards the car and waved for the men to follow.

"I hope I get to see you again, very soon!" Dodge called out after her.


	18. In which she confesses to him

On this particular off-day, Dahlia was doing some light shopping for home and picking a few things up for Crane as well. She figured if she was going to be spending so many of her days at his place, she may as well contribute to the massive amounts of tea and snacks she was consuming.

The sun was just about set and a light rain came in as she left the small convenience store, the moisture speckling the concrete. Although the walk back to her home was short, the rain began to come in heavier and more quickly. By the time she stepped into the building atrium, she was half soaked. Now that she was becoming much more fit and active, she opted to take the stairs rather than the lift.

Somewhere around the sixth floor, a crack of thunder boomed outside and the stairwell lights flickered. Then something in the air shifted. It was an indescribable feeling that Dahlia couldn’t quite place, but suddenly she felt a chill. At first she worried if she was about to have another panic attack, but this sensation different. She continued up, hoping that wasn’t the case, feeling more and more anxious every second.

Then another crack and the lights shut down completely, leaving only faint glows of moonlight streaking in through the stairwell windows. She froze on the step, being careful not to trip, and carefully moved up to the safety of the next landing. The next flash of lightning briefly illuminated an outline of a figure just ahead. At first she thought it was a trick from the shadows, but a footstep preceded the Batman stepping into the rainy window light. Her heart nearly lept out of her throat.

Up close, he was so much taller and larger than she originally thought - His sheer magnitude was enough to intimidate anyone. No wonder more and more people began to fear him.

" **There’s still time to turn back, Dahlia.** "

The body was frozen but Dahlia’s mind felt as if it had been electrocuted. Hearing a low, gruff voice emerge from the mass was strangely unexpected. She asked, “From what?”

" **Your future can be bright. Don't follow the shadows.** "

“M-My ...” The appall began to thaw her muscles, and she gently rocked forward. “My future? W-What would you know about my future? What would  _ anyone _ ?!”

The Batman didn’t move, but Dahlia took several steps forward. He listened.

“You’ve done enough research apparently, but still don’t know a single thing about me. The shadows followed  _ me _ . I tried to get away from  _ them  _ literally as long as I can remember, and all they do is  _ follow me. _ ” Her eyes became glossy. But she didn't shed a tear.

“And not a single fucking soul in this city cared. No one, not even my dad, was able to help me. The only soul in this city that cares about me, even just a little bit, is the fucking Scarecrow of all people. And what’s  _ terrifying  _ to me ... even more  _ terrifying  _ than you ..." Another few steps closer and Dahlia was close enough to ram a finger onto his tall chest. The Batman still didn’t move. " ... is the idea that someone in this world could have the tiniest chance of loving me. Just enough to let me feel a few seconds of ... comfort.”

The Batman was focused on her, his eyes relaxed.

A quick breathe, and Dahlia added, just making a guess at what he may have ultimately been after:

“I’d die before I’d let you get your claws on him.”

Another moment passed as thunder boomed. The Batman clasped his gloved hands around Dahlia’s, then stepped backwards into shadow. A particularly bright flash of lightning disrupted her vision for just a moment, and when she stepped past the window light and into the shadow, her eyes adjusted and found no one there. The stairwell lights came back on.

Dahlia realized that something was placed in her hand. When she opened her fingers, a vial - similar in appearance to the fear compound - lay in her palm.

* * *

  
  


Dahlia wrapped her fingers back around the new vial and tucked it back away into the side of her bra. The car swayed again as the driver took a hard turn down a small street. From the rear-view mirror, Dahlia could see an onslaught of police cars traveling back down the street and on their way to the Shopping District.

The demonstration at Killinger’s went without a hitch. Mostly because Crane and Dahlia - physically - had no involvement. Crane speculated that their antics had been getting too much attention, and called in an overdue favor from the Falcone family. Their men provided the labor, and for a fresh exchange, they got to play with the fear compound, grew their fearsome reputation, and keep everything in Killinger’s coffers.

A single thought passed Dahlia’s consciousness.  _ Since when did we get involved with the mob? _

Crane’s previous rationale had become blurry with time. Still, it made less sense to Dahlia as to why they’d ever collaborate with criminals in the first place. Whatever. It was a thought that wasn't going to get solved right now. She upheld her end, and saw to it that the job was completed without any arrests.

The driver dropped Dahlia off around the corner from Crane’s house.

* * *

  
  


The quiet, introspective mood that had struck Dahlia didn’t relent, even after she and Crane conferred at Richard Dodge’s estate to collect their payment. She let him do all the talking, claiming she was simply tired. There were a few chuckles, a couple words exchanged towards future partnerships, a drink or two, and then they left.

On the way back to Crane’s, Dahlia realized how disassociated she felt, and how obvious her distraction must have been to him. She knew she had to say something. As soon as they arrived and the front door shut, Crane didn’t hesitate. “Dahlia.” She knew that tone of voice well enough at this point. “What’s been on your mind?” The look on his face was mostly neutral. She didn’t have the slightest guess as to what he may have been thinking. For some reason, he made her anxiety skyrocket. Her heartbeat picked up.

He must have seen that. Gently he reached out and rested a hand on her waist. Swallowing, she lowered her jaw and no sound came out. Then finally, she managed, "I-I met the ... Batman the other night." Crane didn't react. "He showed up in my stairwell, from no where. I don't know what he wanted. He didn't say."

"What  _ did  _ he say?" Finally he spoke. Something about him made her notably uneasy. His ... 'energy' ... had shifted.

Breath trembling, she replied, "Something about ... turning back. I think it w-was a warning."

"Or a threat." Crane added.

"I didn't mean to keep it a secret. I was scared that ..."

Finally something in his consciousness made him shift. Drawing her close, Crane embraced her. "It's alright, Dahlia. I won't let anything happen to you."


	19. In which blood paints the psyche

Crane shared some important news with Dahlia later that week. He told her that this most recent semester at Gotham State University would end up being his last as a full-time instructor. Rather than teach, he said he wanted to heal, and so accepted a full-time position as a lead psychologist at Arkham State Hospital. Dahlia had mixed feelings, but was overall curious and happy for him to start down a fresh path.

The insomnia was still hitting him, hard - Crane let slip that he wasn’t able to sleep for over two full days now. She decided to give him an opportunity to try and rest, and left to go get some sleep herself.

* * *

  
  


Dahlia’s footsteps drug water into the lobby as she arrived at her building, small pearls of rainwater streaking down from her hood and coat. A small deluge had kept pace all the remainder of the week, as was common this time of year.

There was a chill to the air here that reminded her of how she felt just before the Batman appeared to her.

When Dahlia exited the stairwell, she noted hearing a very loud TV somewhere on the floor. She wondered if any of the addict neighbors were having a rough night, since they'd occasionally blast some music or a film for whatever reason. But the further Dahlia got down the hallway, the more a drowning feeling hit her throat as she gradually realized it was coming from her own home. It made Dahlia cringe to unlock the front door and open it. She entered and closed it as quickly as she could, and re-locked it from the inside. With hesitation, and a brief scan of the dim and empty room, Dahlia dropped her bag and coat near the door. She didn’t believe for a second that she was alone.

The only illumination came from the TV in the corner, set to some crime drama show. The gunshots and sirens were nearly ear-piercing. Dahlia rushed to turn it off, and thought she heard something from the other room. Turning with her guard up, she saw Linda emerge. An extremely drunk, extremely agitated Linda. Dahlia's guard lowered as her optimism drained.  _ Not this again _ .

The woman lurched forward without warning and swung the heel-end of a stiletto at Dahlia’s head, knocking her in the temple and dropping her face-down to the floor.

Although still conscious, Dahlia could see only the blackness of the void. The impact from the fall knocked the wind out of her. Her head spun, throbbed, and tried to make sense of what just happened. Everything in the room was pulsing. Meanwhile, Linda was screaming. “Y’have any  _ idea  _ what yer doin’ to your father? Eh? Fuckin’  _ tramp _ , gonna get us both killed! G-Gonna get us ... !”

A bit shaken, Dahlia tried to push herself up. Linda threw a forceful kick into the center of her back. Dahlia grunted and went limp. The verbal barrage continued, “He thinks I had somethin’ to do with it and s'gonna burn the whole world. He’s gonna kill  _ us  _ an’  _ then  _ he’s gonna kill yer boy toy!” Desperately trying to avoid further blows, it took much of Dahlia’s stamina to scramble away and stand up before Linda got too close. By the time she was in swinging position again, Dahlia was also prepared with her hands up at the defense. She was shaken and dizzy, but alert enough.

Linda threw the shoe now with a frustrated scream, which Dahlia deflected by wrapping her arms across her head. Finally she could muster some dialogue. “Linda, are you drunk again? Dad wouldn’t do anything like that.” She maintained a comfortable distance, hands still at the ready as necessary.

They paced back towards the entrance as Linda ranted. ” _ Only _ had a few beers, what the fuck d’you know you little skank. Openin’ your legs for  _ anyone  _ at school, even your  _ teacher _ ?!"

Clearly she and Lou had been talking over some concerns. But she didn’t want to believe that her father would have selected those kinds of words or made those kinds of assumptions. Dahlia had known Linda to lie or exaggerate in the past - she learned too late that it was a common quality of a known alcoholic. Still, the entire ordeal and every implication deeply upset her.

"It’s not like that, at all!” The sound of the front door rapidly unlocking distracted them both as Lou entered. The look on his face revealed that he was familiar with what was going on. His eyes seemed to move past Dahlia', just for a moment, and saddened. Linda turned on him and charged him like a frenzied bull, as Lou had to grab onto her wrists to keep her from hurting either of them. Dahlia faded out, not hearing what they went on to shout at each other, seeing only dark shapes wrestling in the void. Her breaths felt heavy as lead, as if her respiratory system had been set to manual instead of automatic. Almost everything felt like a panic attack, except this time, adrenaline was keeping her limber. The world was moving in slow motion.

Dahlia turned back and ran into her bedroom. She slammed and locked the door, then pulled up the chair from her vanity and secured it. Without time to weigh her options, she grabbed a spare bag and began to stuff extra clothes and any valuables into it. Among the items was the vial the Batman had given her. A few moments later and the indistinct shouting from the living room ceased, leaving only the sound of the police chase blaring through the TV still. Then, someone shook the doorknob, followed by a thunderous banging. Lou’s voice demanded, “Dahlia, open this door!  **Dahlia!** "

Her fear had now been broken by the last straw.

Declining any answer, Dahlia zipped up her bag and threw it over her shoulder as she ran to the window. It was always kept about eight inches open, to let Cat come and go as he pleased. As she pushed it completely open, she noticed her feline friend below on the fire escape, sitting under a narrow awning. He was yowling: Probably due to the rain, but possibly also due to the commotion inside. She couldn’t blame him for making a run for it. She was following the same plan.

Racked with sadness, Dahlia gave him an affectionate pet as she ran down. As soon as her shoes hit the sopping wet pavement, she made a run towards the bridge.

Many blocks away by now, the adrenaline wore off and her legs finally gave out and progressively slowed her to a trudge. The pelting rain felt heavier and heavier every moment. It hurt her head and made breathing harder somehow. Others on the street sneered or moved away from her path. She never once noticed that blood had been gradually streaming from the cut at her temple, so much now that part of her blouse was stained. The streets began to look unfamiliar and increasingly darker, and there were less and less pedestrians. The panic began to well. She felt as though she had crossed multiple bridges. She felt like she had been walking for hours upon hours. Nothing looked right.

Then, finally recognizing a street, Dahlia’s feet picked up a little speed to match her hope. Her eyes, after what seemed like so long, finally found Crane’s house, and she gasped. Finally. Finally, after such a long and foggy night, she finally found it. And it seemed to take an equally long amount of time to even reach the porch steps.

When she reached it, she had to catch herself from collapsing. Straightening up again, she banged on the door several times before pausing. Without realizing it, her hand was fidgeting around her hair, attempting to smooth it out and look more presentable. No answer, so she banged again. Another few moments went by, then several heavy clicks, and then the door opened and cast an orange light over Dahlia.

Jonathan Crane stood at his doorway, jaw slacked. “Dahlia ... ?”

“... Jon-” Before she was even able to step forward, her legs buckled and she fell to the floor.


	20. In which he confesses to himself

When she finally mustered the energy to open her crusty eyes even slightly, she couldn’t remember where she was. All she gathered was that it was indoors, with muted indigo-colored walls, and some sort of dark wooden furniture. The shapes weren’t distinctive enough yet through her foggy vision. The light was dim and didn't highlight much of anything. All she knew was that she was lying on something comfortable.

There was a weight pressing over her entire body. It took a few moments, but finally she realized it was a weighted blanket. _ Okay, I'm on a bed _ . She remembered something about weighted blankets helping with brain trauma, somehow. She couldn’t recall where she had read or heard that, but the thought had sprung up nonetheless. Her brain certainly felt scrambled. Another thought: There was a distinct presence behind her. Summoning whatever energy she had, Dahlia carefully leaned back a touch and looked over her shoulder.

Crane’s face was there, eyes closed, breathing softly. Her own breathing paused, then continued silently as she took a moment to really observe him. He was on the bed with her, laying on his side over the covers, an arm over her waist, asleep. Something in her chest expanded. Dahlia leaned further towards him, lifted her chin, and gently pressed her lips to his. They felt dry, but warm and lovely. She wanted to do it again, but hesitated once her consciousness caught up to her actions.

Taking a deep inhale, Crane stirred. His round, icy eyes slowly opened, and found Dahlia close and conscious. Perhaps something in him acted on impulse as well - He drifted forward without pause and kissed her. Dahlia's chest seized with wonderful fright. It was as if every interaction with him had been leading up to this so secretly desired moment. She cherished it so intensely, unable to believe it was happening. His hand slid up her side and smoothed through her hair as he kissed her again, and again, and again. Each more passionate than the last. And she kissed him back.

While still caressing her neck, Crane pulled away and rested his forehead to her cheek and took a few breaths. Then, he moved away and sat up. He took a moment to adjust the long-sleeve tee he wore to bed, then yawned as he stood up.

Dahlia took a deep inhale and exhale, watching him. The moment, now passed, still lingered. She asked with a smirk, "How'd you sleep?"

First he looked at the floor. Then he pursed his lips and looked back her way. "Overall ... pretty well." They lingered here another moment before she asked,

“How did I end up here? What happened?”

Changing gears, Crane replied with a deep sigh, “You showed up on my porch, battered. What do you remember from the last few days?” He moved to a pile of clothes and a bag atop a corner desk. Dahlia recognized the duffel bag as her own, and now vaguely recalled packing it. Actually, the more she looked around the room, the more she realized this must have been Crane's bedroom.

Everything was sore in her body, but still she managed to push away the weighted blanket and sit up straight. At that point, she realized that she was in only undergarments. “Um ... I’m not so sure yet, my head feels foggy. Some kind of fight?” A point near her temple was throbbing. When she reached up to feel, there was a heavily textured bandage there.

Crane nodded. “That was two nights ago now.” Picking up a blouse and jeans, he headed back towards the bed and sat at Dahlia’s side. “A PhD doesn’t qualify me as a medical doctor, but I’d wager an educated guess that you received a concussion. Besides the obvious physical signs of trauma, you weren't lucid the handful of times you woke up. And, you’ve now got five stitches,” he motioned to the area Dahlia was poking around at, “plus some deep bruising on your back and arms.”

She looked back down to her arms and saw that, indeed, several bruises had popped up. A bandage was wrapped around one of her forearms. Then she asked, "Do I need to go to the hospital or something?"

"No need. I treated you here. And I can get you painkillers as you need." The entire ordeal was disheartening for them both. Crane had a killer poker face, but Dahlia could tell her was upset merely by his constrained tone of voice.

Crane shifted gears again. “Ease any concerns, by the way - I was a gentleman with you.” He offered the clothing. “Amelia Kendrick was here to help, and left some supplies for you.”

That was actually kind of surprising. “You called Amelia?” Dahlia took the clothes from him and laid them on her lap.

“Hmm. You were mostly unconscious, and I needed an assistant." He smirked. "And maybe a voice of reason.”

She smiled. This sounded like it could be telling. “Voice of reason?” The mood shifted, as Crane’s faint smile disappeared. He took both of Dahlia’s hands in his, affectionately massaging her palms.

“I told you that I wouldn't let anything happen to you, and I ... failed. And it won't happen ever again."

That was something she felt she could take to heart. After a very long pause, he scoffed and muttered, "Dahlia, please, you're killing me." He picked up the blouse and held it over her exposed bra with his head turned. Maybe if she had been in better and more mischievous spirits, she'd have really pushed those buttons.

* * *

  
  


The day the dean died was the first day of Crane's life where he seriously considered changing his long-term goals to the benefit of another human being. In his lifetime prior, there was never any meaningful family around, never any friends, never any serious girlfriends. Humans were kept beyond arm's length. Everyone was a means to an end, and destined to serve a function. That elusive mind of his was difficult to explore, purposely forged that way in order to survive. Efficiency was paramount, with no room for  _ lingering  _ distractions.

But Dahlia Rhodes ...

... was indescribably special. He truly feared he might have felt more strongly for her than he was comfortable admitting. It was never intended to go this far. But he couldn't find the willpower to stop. And he knew that if this was the path he wanted to navigate, that he actually wanted to take seriously it was going to be littered with obstacles. One obstacle in particular needed to be addressed before much time passed.

Two days before the meeting at the docks was when the dean pulled a surprise meeting with Crane. The entire conversation had stuck in his memory, word for word, as narrated by the dean's placid voice.

"Jonathan, I want to talk with you about one of your students, Dahlia Rhodes. Any guess as to why?" Crane knew why, but didn't answer. The dean continued. "Now, I'm sure that the nature of your relationship with Miss Rhodes, as with all your students, is purely innocent. But the several opinions that crossed my inbox aren't quite as virtuous. Students and faculty both are gossiping and making accusations of fraternization. This is purely their perception, keep in mind. But, we both know that perceptions may induce some unwanted consequences. It might be in your best interest to do whatever you feel is necessary to lay low." Crane was expressionless. The dean rested one hand over the other on his desk, a gold band on the left ring finger gleaming from the desk light. Then he finished, "I'd recommend you think my advice over, before you find yourself in a tough situation in which you're wrongly accused."

The room fell quiet. The dean didn't mind permitting the silence.

Crane finally said, "You're an honest man, Mr. Dreier. Since the day we began working together, I had a feeling that I wouldn't enjoy coercing you to step down."

Dean Dreier's brows furrowed at what he felt like was a distasteful joke. After another few seconds, Crane stood and headed for the door. He locked it. The dean didn't react, and only watched as Crane dropped back into his seat with a sigh, a tuft of his hair falling over his forehead. Something about his usual pattern of speech changed. Now, he spoke with a bit more speed and energy. "Rebecca Charles is an honest woman." The corners of Dean Dreier's mouth dropped subtly. Crane continued, "It somewhat surprised me to discover that you aren't actually paying her much for off-the-books child care. From what I could tell, she didn't want anything to do with your bank account, and she doesn't care about ruining your public reputation. Who'd have guessed that a modest little kitchen hand was flirting with you because she was actually interested? Poor thing must have been heartbroken, to lose a good, honest, family-oriented man like yourself." The dean was expressionless and quiet. Crane permitted the silence for another several moments. Then he finished, matter-of-factly, "You will announce your retirement from Gotham State University effective tomorrow, or Estella Dreier will no doubt take your  _ first  _ family's children with her somewhere you will never be able to sniff out."

The memory with the dean was electrifying. Even faced with the prospect of a life turned upside-down and destroyed from the inside out, Dean Dreier didn't bend to Crane's threat. That kind of courage was why Crane did generally enjoy and tolerate him. But tragically, Dean Dreier ended up paying for it with drug-induced heart failure in that same office minutes after their conversation ended. Why such an impulsive act of terror? Because the dean made a threat with something personal to Crane. Something unfamiliar, terrifying, and sacred.

The day the dean died - actually - was the day that Jonathan Crane realized that he fell in love with someone.


	21. In which a fire rises

The bruising all across Dahlia’s body was too sore to get her far from the bed. It felt good to finally stand though, as wobbly as her legs still were. She trudged over to her duffel bag and examined its contents. There were some toiletries, some fresh undergarments, and ... that vial. She’d forgotten about it. For a fleeting moment, she thought to show him. But right away, she felt cowardly at the idea, and tucked it back into her bag. It didn’t feel like the right time or place.

After perhaps an hour of fussing around with showering and with changing, she emerged from the main bedroom and walked out to greet him. As she did, Nightmare chittered a greeting from her sitting room perch. Dahlia detoured briefly to walk over and say hello.

Having a cop for a father meant things were never just swept under the rug. After stroking Nightmare's back several times softly, Dahlia wondered if her father had looked up Crane’s address and done any investigating. It would have been a surprise if he hadn't, given his occasional temper and his obvious distaste for Crane.

Speaking of, she soon explored the area and found Crane in the kitchen, carefully pouring some tea. Leaning against the door frame, she asked, “Did my father come by while I was out?”

He motioned for her to take a cup. “No. But we did speak on the phone.”

Curiously and gloomily, she inquired, “Oh. What did he say?” She reached out and took a cup by its handle.

It didn’t escape her notice this morning, but at this particular moment, Dahlia confirmed that Crane’s tone of voice was sounding more relaxed today. “Numerous expletives towards my character. Most pretty true.” Dahlia tittered at the comment. “I managed to talk him into giving you some time and space to clear your head and think on things.”

It must have been some damn good convincing on Crane’s end to talk her father off a ledge. “He used to have a mean temper, ya know. Nowadays, he's better at controlling it. You must have been lucky to survive his fury.”

His brows briefly raised suggestively, and he said nothing else. She raised the cup to her lips, blew, and took a careful sip.

* * *

  
  


That afternoon, back in Crane’s corner office, he sat at his desk scribbling notes of some kind. She had taken a spot in the book corner, comfortably nestled on the floor in a knit blanket that he pulled out for her. While he worked, she helped herself to his collection and had grabbed something to read. _ The Power of Now _ by Kenneth Drowler.

While reclining against one of the shelves, Dahlia realized she was distracted and not actually taking in any of the words on the page. Without lowering the book, she glanced past it to the corner desk Crane was leaning over. It was difficult to resist staring, but she admitted that she enjoyed just ... looking at him. His hair was a bit messy and falling just over the eyes, sleeves shoved up past the elbows, forearm muscles contracting as he wrote, and eyes very much alert and focused on a task. A good work ethic was attractive. And so was the unyielding drive for success. There was so much precious comfort in just his presence.

Before long, Dahlia found herself too fatigued to stay up much longer. After noticing her dozing off, he escorted her back to the main bedroom to get a nap in. Fleetingly she wanted to invite him to join her, but was shy to pull the trigger on the thought. Probably for the best - In mere seconds after her head hit the pillow, Dahlia fell asleep.

* * *

  
  


And was eventually awakened by Crane, who looked yet more disheveled than earlier. He repeated her name and shook her shoulder to get her up. The pain medication must have done a number on her system, since her head was throbbing for whatever reason. Still, she didn't waste any time and asked, “Jon? What’s wrong?” Something under the floor was shifting, like a vibration. When her sleepy vision cleared up, she got a better look at the expression on his face and felt worried.

“A fire broke out at your building. It’s being contained by the fire department right now.”

That was alarming news and took a few moments to accept. A few major questions came to mind, such as the extent of the fire, and if any animals were trapped inside. Poor Cat, she figured he was smart enough to keep away and stay safe. But the concern for her father vaulted to the top of her list of stressors. “My dad ... ?”

He shook his head. “We don’t have the details yet.” The comment physically ached her chest.

The shifting vibration of the floor had faded, but picked up again. “What time is it? And what’s going on?” Pushing the blanket aside, Dahlia pivoted her feet to the floor and sat at the edge of the bed.

After a glance to his wristwatch, Crane replied, “12:23am. And ... as a cautionary move, long overdue, we’re moving the lab to a more secure location.”

That too was concerning news. “... Why?”

A flash of rage crossed Crane’s eyes, and a muscle in his temple twitched. He took steps back from the bed until he bumped into the wall. Then, angrily, he threw an elbow into it. The blow had shot Dahlia's shoulders up to her earlobes in surprise. The move seemed really ... out of character. She worried that her question upset him.

He sighed and shook his head, as if trying to shake away a thought. His lips parted to say something, but closed again before he threw another elbow at the wall before sliding down to collapse on the floor. She felt the panic well. Before it boiled over, he finally spoke, voice shaken. It caught her incredibly off guard. Instead of standing, Dahlia carefully slid off the bed and crouched down towards the floor. She listened intently.

"Building an ... 'enterprise' ... has been the primary focus of my existence for the last ten years." She slowly maneuvered closer to him. "It hasn't been without setbacks. Any endeavor is going to be accosted by any myriad of problems. And like anyone with half a head on their shoulders, I anticipated it all and stopped it all. All of it. And every step of the way, everyone involved has regarded me as nothing more than ... just another ' _freak_ ' with _misplaced ambition_. Regardless of the obscene, irrelevant profits earned. Regardless of the results dropped in their laps." Dahlia was directly in front of him now, seated on her ankles between his outstretched knees. Moisture had formed in his eyes. She thought he could weep at any moment.

"I will never escape the pathetic reality that I will always be a ‘ _ freak’ _ . I'm too far past the point of wanting acceptance now; that's done and over with. People like us don't need validation from those that  _ serve  _ us.

"But the one thing I didn't want to consider ..." The sentence trailed off as Crane's gaze shifted between both of Dahlia's eyes and her lips. She could see so much sadness and anger behind those blues. He was so good at comforting her, and now that she had the opportunity to reciprocate, she was blank. After a moment, Crane swallowed and seemed to collect himself a bit. He said, "I think Richard Dodge and Carmine Falcone are attempting to cut us out. And I think the fire at your building was an attempt to kill you."

The idea incurred worry, fear, confusion, anger, and disgust. But the emotion that loomed over all the rest was bright and glimmering. Dahlia couldn't push it aside to focus on the seriousness of their situation, as it stood firmly rooted in the center of her vision. It was the most terrifying, wonderful feeling she'd ever discovered.

Crane's breathing had become heavier. As did Dahlia's. And before apprehension got in the way, she leaned forward and tenderly kissed him. Lips locked, he sat forward and held her head and neck with both hands, and passionately kissed her several more times. Pulling away for only a moment, he said under his breath,

"I will kill  _ anyone  _ that means you harm, in any way."


	22. In which the silk is severed

The lab was moved in one day to a modest property outside the city, several winding miles away from the nearest freeway. Dahlia hadn’t visited just yet, but heard that it was the former site of an apple farm. A recently dug - and heavily secured - underground warehouse beneath the barn was the home of the lab now.

Though, the lab was at the back of her thoughts presently. Lou Rhodes still hadn’t been found. Crane said he called all the local hospitals, the coroner’s office, and the Gotham PD. No one knew where he was. She was literally worried sick, barely able to stand all day. But as much as he wanted to comfort her, their circumstances were pressing. They needed to get out of that house.

Amelia called to check on Dahlia, and by the sounds of it, she fished out some info from Crane. After their chat, Crane let Dahlia know that Amelia had pitched the idea of going shopping for some clothes and to grab some food. Admittedly, the idea made her feel the faintest touch of insecurity to be away from him. Little did she know that he felt exactly the same way. But, he did point out that the house at the farm still needed to be spruced up to be habitable, and that it would also be a good idea to get security set up. Made sense, she supposed.

To make each other feel better, he supplied her with some tools of self defense in the event of something unexpected: Her Banshee "uniform," four fear canisters, and a concealable snubnosed revolver, all tucked away in her small duffel bag. Per his persistence, she also promised to rest if needed and take things easy to allow her concussion to continue healing.

A car arrived to pick Dahlia up in an hour. Crane’s kiss goodbye was bittersweet and savored. But the lingering memory that stuck during the drive to meet Amelia were his parting words.

“Don't worry. After this is finished, nothing will be able to separate us again.”

* * *

  
  


The location that Amelia chose was a bustling indoor shopping mall in a modest neighborhood. Surprisingly to Dahlia, Amelia drove them there herself. More surprising than that was that Amelia was driving an old and well-used SUV. All the rich people Dahlia had recently met had their own drivers in much more posh cars. What didn't surprise her though was Amelia's getup. Every time they met, she was in a form-fitting and brightly-colored mini-dress, high heels, manicured nails, and airbrushed makeup. Flawless as always.

When they arrived at the parking garage, they passed the valet's kiosk. Another surprise that Amelia passed them by and began to circle the ramps upwards to find a free spot. Eventually one was found near the top floor, on a less busy level. As they got out, Amelia said, "I know, I know. Didn't think a gussied-up bimbo like me would drive for herself, especially in this heap, right?"

Almost offended on her behalf, Dahlia replied, "I never thought that of you. You're just ... a surprising person."

Amelia smiled warmly as she manually locked the car doors with the key, and tossed it into her designer purse. "You're a sweet girl, Doll. But don'tcha fuss, I really do hire a lot of outside help. Doesn't mean I forgot how to be my own independent woman, though! That's important, I think. Havin' real companionship is such a blessin', but bein' your own person is worth more n' all the gold in El Dorado."

With a forced smile, Dahlia nodded. She was still distracted.

Amelia continued, "I know, Doll, I know. You'll feel a little better once we get some good food in ya.”

First, they went from store to store and Amelia encouraged Dahlia to pick out anything she wanted. Dahlia wasn't keen on the idea of another person spending so much money on her, so took a while to finally pick out one blouse that she liked. Amelia jested and told Dahlia that she'd pinch her unless she picked out more clothes. It took another bit of back and forth for Dahlia to finally give in and pick out another item or two.

After a while, they took a rest in the food court. It was still surprising for Dahlia to see Amelia do such ... non-rich-people things; such as order two plates of chicken tenders with a side of hot sauce and mayonnaise. She didn't know what she was expecting, but it definitely wasn't that.

"Childhood habit." Amelia answered the looming curiosity. "A habanero-based hot sauce is my personal favorite, but this tabasco stuff works alright."

Dahlia gave a small chuckle, but didn't know what else to say.

Since no conversation passed over a few moments, Amelia began a new topic. Her voice got quieter, a bit gentler, but making sure to project enough to carry through the crowd and to Dahlia's ears. "So, how did a sweet thing like you get mixed up into ... everythin'?"

Not thinking much of it at all, Dahlia responded, "Jon was my teacher at Gotham State." Amelia's eyes flicked up upon hearing his name referred to so casually. Dahlia didn't notice, as she was idly examining her barely-eaten burger. "It feels like forever ago now. Things just kind of lined up I think. It's a series of weird stories. He's uh ... well, like you I guess. I didn't expect him to be so ... kind to me. Things just took off from there."

Amelia's bright pink lips stretched into a small smile. "He's your rose among thorns, ain't he?" The girl turned beet red and didn't respond, and was now looking away. Dahlia smiled through the embarrassment, because she knew it was true. Amelia wasn't smiling anymore.

Before saying anything else, she took a cursory glance around. Then ... "I might be fibbin' ..." Amelia began, "... if I were to say that I had no intention of gettin' you away from that house to talk girl to girl."

The remark took Dahlia off guard. Puzzled, she raised her eyebrows and waited for an elaboration.

"When was the last time you checked the news?"

She was clueless as to what Amelia was referring to. "Maybe a week or two. We've been busy. Why?"

Pausing to collect the right words, Amelia said, "The dean of your college died recently."

"Oh." Unfortunate news, but nothing of personal note for Dahlia.

"They're calling it a heart attack, but the details just don't line up. Especially with those attacks on some students a while back. Seems like too good a coincidence. And ... those same students were moved to the state hospital recently. Where, I think, Dr. Crane recently kicked up his heels."

The implication was upsetting, and Dahlia didn't care for it one bit. As if sensing the shift in moods, Amelia laid down her fork to focus on the conversation. "Dr. Crane has a lot of desirable qualities, Dahlia. He's the hardest workin' man I ever did meet. Handsome, sharper n' a tack, driven. Many of the same reasons I fell for Paul. But Crane's got another side to him. A side he doesn't like you to see. A side he's been showin' us a lot more of lately."

Dahlia reached the end of her comfort zone on this topic. "What ... What is this? Why did you bring me out here to tell me these things?"

Voice a little hushed now, Amelia answered. "Pretty sure Crane would have had you followed here. Wanted to find a public spot where they couldn't eavesdrop s'good."

"That's ridiculous." Dahlia's voice became a bit louder now. "Who told you these things?"

Amelia was vested in her message, and continued with affectionate determination.

"Darlin' ... Crane set that fire at your buildin'. One of Paul's men was there when it happened."


	23. In which she goes home

The void had engulfed Dahlia during the remainder of her talk with Amelia. A rush of emotions had hit her all at once, mostly denial and outrage. Dahlia was reflecting on it again and again, playing the conversation out in her head as her hand rested at the back of an isolated payphone outside the mall. Amelia was waiting at the car, allowing her some privacy.

Crane murdering the dean, Crane instigating the move of the GSU students to Arkham for reasons unknown, Crane setting fire to the building. It sounded preposterous and made her feel unpleasant. On top of that, Amelia said that Richard Dodge severed ties with Crane. According to them both, Crane had become increasingly more unpredictable and dangerous, seeming to favor his own personal agendas rather than the safety and profit of their partnerships. By the tone of her voice, it was made clear that she had no affinity for Dodge. Yet Amelia still defended his professionalism.

None of this sounded anything like Crane, but ... maybe this all tied back to his mission? What  _ was  _ it again? The path from the beginning to now seemed so damn convoluted, it was overwhelming.

Dahlia was standing by the telephone now because she wanted to call Crane and hear his voice, and ask about the gossip. Yet something in the void kept nagging at her. It asked her to hold back, just a few inches, and wait. Wait and see. An impulse caused her to lift the receiver. Instead of dialing his number, she dialed a different one from memory. After a few rings, someone answered. “Gotham Police Department.”

Quietly she asked, “Officer Munroe, please. You can let him know it’s, um, Dahlia.”

The operator transferred her without further questions. When the next person picked up, it seemed to take eons for her next sentence to come out. Really, she thought for sure he'd be out on patrol. “Hi, Jay. It’s, um ... It’s Dahlia.”

“D? Shit, are you okay? Where have you been? We’ve been trying to find you.”

Stiffening anxiety creeped up her neck. What kind of information did they have to necessitate tracking her down? The reasonable assumption would be related to the apartment fire, but paranoia said they may know something about the fear operation. What if they had found the lab? “I’m okay, I promise. I’m safe. But, uh ... What’s going on? Why ... ?”

“It’s about your father-”

“-What about my father? Is he alright?”

Jay paused a moment to find the right words. “He ... A fire broke out at your building last night, and your father was caught in it.” Dahlia cursed under her breath. Jay continued, “Firemen got him out before too long, but he was ... behaving erratically. Even after getting him to an ambulance, he was combative and aggressive.”

Something heavy hit her chest. She asked, “Were his pupils pinpointed?”

"What?"

"D-Did it seem like he was ... hallucinating?"

Jay must have thought it an odd question, since he paused before answering. “They said he was completely irate and scared, so ... It's a possibility.”

A pin dropped to the floor of her mind, a pure tone of energy ringing out from it and pushing all other words and images away like a gust of wind. Jay continued talking, but the sound faded into nothingness. The only sensation that stood in the vast blackness of her headspace was the image of Jonathan Crane, holding a scarecrow mask, his expression mirroring the night that Dahlia first mentioned her run-in with the Batman. An expression she remembered very explicitly. His expression void of negotiation, mercy, or remorse. The break of character.

Finally Jay's words pierced the void. “Dahlia, are you still there? Where’s Jonathan Crane?” But the wheels in her head weren’t ready to slow their turning. Dahlia heard him now, but couldn’t reply. The entirety of her focus wasn't here anymore.

Jay said again, “We need to talk to him right away. Dahlia, have you seen Jonathan Crane?”

The receiver slammed back onto the telephone.

* * *

  
  


What to do, what to do.

What to do, what to do, what to do.

She felt better knowing the phone call took place on a payphone. Still, if someone wanted to find her right now, she knew they probably could without any issues. Time was of the essence. She needed to figure out what she was going to do and what she believed in, and had to do both fast. But the contradiction of stories felt as if it were tearing her sanity apart. It was poor timing to have all of this happen only after feeling like they were really connected. Life’s coincidences were often steeped in pain and delusion.

Maybe there was another story here that she didn’t know. Maybe she just needed to talk to Crane and clear up these misunderstandings. Maybe Amelia had bad information. Maybe Paul's man got confused and only thought he saw Crane. Maybe Crane was trying to save the apartment from Dodge. Maybe the dean’s death was tragically poor timing. Maybe Crane was switching jobs for the pay raise. Maybe it was for altruism.

She was scaling a mountain of “maybe’s” and realized she had yet to reach its summit. Such as, maybe the feeling in the pit of her gut was right. The feeling that she felt something was off, regardless of her affections. The feeling that he wasn't telling her his whole story. He’d never hurt her, would he? Dahlia was sure of it, or so she thought.

Maybe she needed to have more faith?

After emotionally spiraling in silence for some time, Dahlia made up her mind. She headed towards the parking garage.

* * *

  
  


It took  _ quite  _ a bit of convincing, but Dahlia got Amelia to drop her off at her apartment instead of heading straight to the farm. She could call a driver from there when she was finished reflecting, alone. As unbelievable as the events had felt, she wanted to see for herself. Maybe it would help her figure out what's next.

The fire escape felt like the best route of entry, she thought for some reason. She was worried about bumping into any neighbors with flapping gums. There was some hope to see Cat along the way, but no luck. Hopefully he was safe, well-fed, and happy.

The window's glass was broken with pieces scattered both inside and out of the charred frame. The first thing to hit Dahlia's nostrils was the strong smell of fire and smoke clinging to all objects and walls. Carefully stepping through and into her bedroom, Dahlia experienced an unfamiliar feeling. She couldn't place it, but knew it sat somewhere in the realm of sadness. The room was nearly unrecognizable, there was so much damage. The living room was worse, as most of the furniture had been eaten by the fire. Ash and soot abound.

After observing for a while, Dahlia finally noticed that the front door to the hall was ajar, with police tape visible on the outside. And then by some cosmic means of coincidence, she saw the door swing open, startling her immensely. Before having a chance to move, in walked Richard Dodge followed by four men. Dodge himself feigned surprise to see her.

"Miss Rhodes, what a coincidence!"


	24. In which ash paints the Banshee

Coincidence.  _ Right _ . Life was full of many coincidences lately. Dahlia figured this meant trouble, and began wondering how she was going to get out sooner than later. “Oh, what’s up, guys?” She asked with subtle sarcasm. “How’d you know I’d be home?” Trying not to be obvious, she casually adjusted the bag over her shoulder to be positioned in a more accessible way. That revolver was at the forefront of her thoughts. She wondered how long they were tailing her for.

Without instruction, Dodge’s men dispersed. Half of them stepped back outside, the other two covered a window and her bedroom doorway. She didn’t like this one bit. Dodge answered her question with feigned sweetness. “Just keeping an eye out for my business interests.”

Her fear was making her impatient. “Well, as you can see, I’m quite well. So ...”

“You sure?” He asked with a squint. His eyes caught the bandage near her forehead, and not-so-subtly scanned her up and down.

Not skipping a beat, Dahlia replied, “Yes, I’m fine. And I’d like some privacy.”

“Hm.” Dodge looked to both of his men, and flicked his chin up towards Dahlia’s bedroom. They both left the room. Dodge smiled. “Better?”

Dahlia’s brows furrowed. What was he here for? “Fine enough.” There was a long pause that he didn’t seem to mind. Finally she said something again. “So, what is it?”

“You’d prefer I cut to the chase?” He began taking a few idle steps forward. She wanted to move away, but made conscious attempt to hold her ground. It was hard getting a read on him, outside the creepy glances and flirtatious manner of speaking. A strange thought passed through her mind: She was now hoping that Crane, too, sent someone to follow her. If he found out about this surprise meet-up, she knew with bated certainty that he’d kill Dodge.

When Dahlia didn’t reply, Dodge spoke again. “Crane’s operation is struggling. He’s gone down some roads that a man with business acumen wouldn’t have ventured. That’s the difference between us, Dahlia. I know how to run a business, and I know how to make it successful. I should know, I own about 9 of 'em. I wanted to offer you a new position employed under me. Same rules, better pay, greater success ... nicer scenery.” He bared his white teeth in a smile, causing the muscles in her neck to twitch. “That’s protection you can’t buy.”

It was at this point that she almost began to regret getting involved with any of them. Her old lifestyle seemed so far now, and the incentives seemed to stop trickling in a while ago. And she also couldn’t get why in the world Dodge would be interested in employing a college kid with no relevant degree or resources. There wasn’t any intrigue in her mind, but she still felt compelled to ask. “What’s in it for you?”

She hated that he began approaching her again. Making her thoughts clear, Dahlia turned and walked further into the room. He followed, keeping pace. “You’re sharp Dahlia. You’re green, but sharp. We can learn a lot from each other.” She  _ hated that _ .

Surprisingly, she felt his hand come to rest at her waist. It made her shudder and quickly turn to face him, while continuing to walk backwards and away from him. He didn’t flinch. But the un-breaking gaze he laid on her was making her more and more nervous. He chuckled. “You don’t have to be nervous, Dahlia. I’m a very fair man. I’d treat you like a goddess.”

Eventually Dahlia felt her back meet a wall. “I’m taken.” It felt strange to say. Was she really?

Dodge didn’t visibly react. “Is that so?”

The effort Dahlia placed into trying to appear unintimidated didn’t feel like it was working. “Yes.”

“Hm. Tried to be nice.”

In a blink, Dodge threw the back of his hand into Dahlia’s face, sending her to the blackened floor with a crash. Landing on her stomach, her bag swung up with the momentum and landed near her head. Soot and dust kicked up all around. Phased, she couldn’t move. He packed a much firmer swung than Linda. The rotten essence of charred wood and chemicals invaded her senses.

“Why’d you have to be that way, Dahlia? Now look what I have to do to you.”

Unable to see quite yet, she felt him kneel over her, grab, and yank at the waistline of her jeans. Instant panic. What was he doing?!

She hurriedly clutched her bag and dizzily managed to dive a hand inside. Aggressively, Dodge pushed the bag away to reveal that Dahlia had swiftly gotten hold of the revolver. As she swung towards him, he grabbed her wrist and kept the barrel pointed at the wall. “Ah,  _ la chica es fuerte! _ " Forcefully, he slammed her arm to the dirty floor, causing her to shout in pain. It took only two times before her fingers couldn't grip the weapon anymore, dropping it with a clatter.

A strange, loud shot echoed from the other room, followed by a thud. Dahlia thought it was a gunshot - it was similar but lacked a certain quality. It seemed to alert Dodge, who reached for something in the back of his waistband. Then an armored man entered the area with a silenced pistol at the ready. He and Dodge both fired a round at the other. The unknown man barely missed a shot entering the wall behind him, but Dodge shouted out in pain after a bullet hit him in the knee. The two other men from outside peeked in, and the newcomer responded by firing a few rounds towards the door. He heard them step back and shout commands across each other.

While they seemed distracted, the man rushed to Dahlia, kicking the distracted Richard Dodge aside in the process. First he picked up both their firearms and shell casings and tucked them away in a hip bag, then yanked Dahlia up off the floor as she clutched her duffel bag tightly. She felt herself get hoisted up and over his shoulder. A few more shots were fired, probably for a distraction, while the man took her back out to the fire escape and descended towards his strategically parked getaway car.

Dahlia's head finally stopped spinning after realizing she was strapped in and speeding off. Just in time to hear the man state "headed back." She rolled her head to the side and furrowed her brows at the guard, seeing him hang up a cell phone call. "Jon sent you?"

He didn't care to make excessive conversation. "We're heading to the lab." Saying nothing, she looked back towards the road they were traveling. So Crane did have her followed. That said a lot of things.

* * *

  
  


It took nearly an hour to reach it. Dahlia made a conscious effort to remember the route. Eventually the pavement of the unmarked road ended and they traveled on a dirt path for several miles. After heading through a discreetly guarded and locked gate, they passed a massive expanse of orchards with barren trees. A collection of buildings came into view in the distance, buried within a tight bundle of tall trees.

When they came closer to the compound, more guards came into view. Among them was the Scarecrow, masked and waiting.

When the car stopped and Dahlia carefully stepped out, Crane approached. He removed his mask and let it fall to the ground, and the look on his face was only of concern. "Dahlia, are you alright?" His hands brushed the black dirt from her face, gently pulling her near. "I shouldn't have sent you alone with her."

Dahlia noticed a fresh blood bruise on the upper side of Crane's cheek. She wondered if he was going to tell her how he got that. Probably not. At this moment, finally back with him, she realized that they couldn't ever go back to how things were.


	25. In which the Scarecrow lays its kindling

While Dahlia lay unconscious in the master bedroom, broken and battered from the long and dark night, Crane sat atop a kitchen counter. He was slouched, arms rested on his thighs, hands clasped together, as his glaring eyes stared blankly towards the floor. A systematic series of decisions were being made, almost impulsively, framed with the sound of pouring rain.

After a moment, he slid himself onto the floor and walked to the telephone. He lifted the receiver and dialed a number recently committed to memory. As the line rang, Crane adjusted his sweat-spotted, roughened shirt. His eyes glanced to a dried stain at his chest, observing the blood and remembering how it was acquired. It got there just hours ago from Dahlia's bleeding arm, pressed against him as he had carried her inside from the porch. She wasn't well enough to even begin to tell him what had happened that night, but he had enough information to make an educated guess. And the smeared blood was the resolve he needed to make a move.

The line picked up, and a man with a gruff voice answered, "Lou Rhodes."

For just a faint moment, Crane wondered if his next words were going to be worth the backlash to follow. He knew that he and Lou had at least one thing in common: They weren't the type of men to bow to threats. Well maybe they had two things in common, he thought, as he glanced again to Dahlia's blood stain. He knew he had leverage. Authoritatively, he greeted, "Good morning, Officer Rhodes. It's rather early, I know. Or maybe I should say late?"

There was a pause before Lou sighed with annoyance, and clarified, "Is this who I think it is?"

Crane almost forgot how much he  _ loathed  _ Lou Rhodes. "Ooh, you recognized me so quickly, eh? My younger self would have killed to be so memorable."

"I'm five minutes away from busting your door down. Where is she, scumbag?"

The fire burned in Crane's chest. He didn't have any desire to hold back. "So, Lou, got a question for ya. What could have possibly happened at home to make Dahlia recognize that it wasn't safe for her?"

The change of Lou's tone of voice was telltale to his rising fury. "You've got some pretty big balls, you know that? I'm going to love getting my hands around your fucking throat."

"I wonder if it'll be as easy to snap as Dahlia's." The dark comment silenced a rebuttal. Crane added, before much pause fell between them. "Let's just go ahead and skip the quarreling and get down to brass tacks. Expectation number one: If you come anywhere near me or this house, I'll go into the other room and slice every inch of your daughter's body open like a roast suckling pig." He heard the other end of the line crack loudly. Crane waited a second to hear anything. When he heard a faint exhale, he continued. "Expectation number two: You won't tell a soul about this conversation. You're going to take a personal leave of absence and answer phone calls only from me."

"And do fuck all?"

"Until  _ your new boss _ comes a-calling."

Another crack or two from the other end of the line again, and the sound of plastic shattering. The connection crackled but didn't drop. Faintly, Lou shouted. Then he hissed into the receiver, "Just you wait, fucker. Just wait. You punks always think you can get around people like me. You have no idea."

Crane sighed with fatigue from the long night. In for the kill. "Get a grip, Lou. She'll be safe in the meantime. I've actually grown quite fond of having a feminine presence around, believe it or not. Especially someone so easy on the eyes. Between us, I'd prefer not to maim a woman so talented with moving her hips."

The cracking, banging noise picked up again with a masculine scream before the line went silent. Satisfied, Crane gently hung up the receiver.

* * *

  
  


Two mornings later, Crane stood in his kitchen with two teacups. Resting in each was a tea bag, but one alone contained a small pool of a clear liquid. Sedatives weren't his specialty, but he had been practicing with them lately. It took some time to kick into Dahlia's system, but it worked like a charm. He hoped she would sleep peacefully through the evening as he needed. Much as he wanted to be near her, especially after that terrible night, there was something he  _ needed  _ to take care of.

Along with two other men, the Scarecrow took a ride over to Lou Rhodes apartment after the sun set. A third man assigned to watch the building already radioed ahead to let them know that Lou and Linda were both home. And when Lou opened the door to greet them, he looked intensely at the ready. Linda was sitting quietly on the sofa, appearing freshly showered with hair still damp. The bags under her tired eyes sagged liked a wet curtain on a clothesline.

The men wasted no time. One scouted the perimeter of the disheveled apartment, adding to its disarray by rudely pulling some objects to the floor at random. Some books, some papers, some knick knacks, it didn't matter. The other man was keeping watch by the door, with a tactical rifle at the ready. Lou appeared visibly confused by their actions, and glanced towards the sound of a particularly loud crash as they yanked some kitchen shelving down, sending dishware to the vinyl sheet flooring.

The Scarecrow beckoned Lou to sit by Linda, then it took a seat itself at the edge of their coffee table. There, it addressed its primary concern, voice moderately distorted and deepened by the mask. "It's Linda Reinhart, is that correct?"

Sober, exhausted, scared Linda nodded weakly. Her lower lip trembled.

"And you're the one who beat Dahlia?"

Lou's eyes cast down. It took a shamed moment for Linda to finally nod through watering eyes. This talk seemed like it had already happened between the two. Next, the Scarecrow addressed Lou directly.

"And ... how did you respond to that?"

The response was aggressive, as expected. Yet also restrained. "She's leaving, and I'm pressing charges."

Crane felt that answer lacked resolve.

"Hm." The Scarecrow looked back to Linda. "That good enough?" Both appeared visibly confused, unsure of what they were supposed to say or do next. Then the Scarecrow stood, withdrew a pistol from its waist, aimed it at Linda, and fired a bullet into her head.

The piercing action came completely unexpectedly, and Lou and the man with the rifle both had flinched at the sound. Crane and the other man didn't waver. Linda's body fell limp and slumped to her side as blood began rushing out from the wound between her eyebrows, soaking the cushion and rushing to pool on the floor. Her skin was already growing more pale. Lou's throat was seized, hardly able to react.

The Scarecrow answered its previous question.

"No, that's not good enough. Not for my ... 'Mistress of Fear.' I'm honestly pretty astounded: Her own father failed at delivering justice. That doesn't say a lot of great things about you, Officer Rhodes, on multiple levels." In another moment, the Scarecrow dispensed a plume of the toxin from its sleeve and into Lou's weeping face. The man didn't move, except to futily attempt controlling his coughs. The way his pupils shrunk when looking back to the Scarecrow confirmed the compound's effectiveness.

The Scarecrow barked to its men. " **_Light it up._ ** "

It was too distracted to notice that the man with the rifle didn't jump straight to attention. After a hesitation, the man caught up with his colleague and joined in on splashing gasoline across all surfaces and furniture. Eyes not leaving Lou, the Scarecrow leaned closer to him to observe the reaction. Fascinating that nothing about the mask seemed to spark the same level of intense fear from the others. Lou was probably too distracted by the death that took place in front of his eyes moments ago, and from the rage of seeing Jonathan Crane in grabbing distance. The Scarecrow could forgive that.

" **_Man to man, monster to monster, I never did like you either. Your will to act is lacking. You just don't care at all, do you?_ ** "

After a moment, the unflinching man threw a lighter at a painting hung between the bedroom doors. Flames quickly grabbed on and spread, engulfing the section of wall in a matter of seconds. The man stood there a moment to admire his work, then started back towards Crane in the front room.

" **_Let's get to know each other better at Arkham. Sound good, champ?_ ** "

Finally something reacted. Lou's coughing turned into shouting, and he was fixated on the Scarecrow's eyes. Much to its surprise, Lou possessed the strength to wildly swing a right hook straight into its cheek. The movement followed through and pushed them both sideways to the floor. Crane grunted with frustration and scrambled up onto his knees, feeling red with rage. He aimed the pistol again, this time at Lou, pressing the muzzle into his head. His fingers were trembling.

"Do it!" The comment fueled Crane's rage. Lou managed to shout between his cries of terror. "Do it,  _ freak! _ You  _ freak! Fucking freak! _ " Again and again he shouted.

An inch was holding the Crane’s finger rigid, unable to fully squeeze the trigger. It was almost physically discomforting, rattling his entire skeletal frame. Then the heat of the spreading fire pulled him back into the present, back into the Scarecrow’s body.

_ Just one inch. Give her that one inch. _

Lou was still shouting but the Scarecrow wasn't processing it anymore. With a barking command, it waved its men to leave as the fire grew.


	26. In which they nest

By Dahlia's request, Crane sent his workers back underground and allowed themselves some privacy on the surface. She was too flustered to take in anything but the desire to clean off the recent memory of the apartment, literally and perhaps figuratively. A nearby hose reel at the side of a barn stood out. With a stifled huff, she walked over and helped herself as Crane followed curiously. After twisting the knob and pausing to allow water to push out old debris, Dahlia pointed the end towards her cheek and roughly cleaned the soot off her face. She knew it probably came off odd, but she wasn't able to conceal her fears and frustrations.

"Dahlia."

For a moment she wanted to ignore him, but as upset as she was, it was hard to do. Spitting stray beads of water out, she turned the hose off and dropped it to the dirt ground. She turned his way, breathing heavy. Her chest ached to look at him.

"Yes, I had him follow you. For your protection."

Twenty thoughts were squabbling in her mind, but none stepped forward to be spoken aloud. She looked back to the ground. Crane continued, stepping forward. "It's not my intention to smother you, Dahlia. We live in dangerous times, and we're doing dangerous work."

He had a valid enough point. Five men basically went after her in broad daylight and one nearly violated her beyond comprehension. She mustered a weak and defeated, "I know now." But why couldn't he have offered a bodyguard when she was leaving? Reasonable doubt was that he may not have realized that danger at the time, but he was such a prepared person that it was hard to consider. It made a lot more sense to consider the alternate. To consider Amelia's truth.

When she glanced up to meet his eyes, they lingered for a long, long moment. Amelia's warnings seemed like distant fantasy right that moment. Somehow Jay's voice faded into a dark cavity deep inside. It was hard to fathom that the darling human in front of her would do anything to purposefully hurt her in any way. Yet here she was, her trust waning. Even diminished, even knowing it was diminished, that affinity stood strong. Even knowing something was wrong, it felt firmly rooted.

It was hard to think about now. She just knew how to feel. Seeking comfort, even from the stirring thoughts of her now ambiguous relationship, Dahlia closed the gap between them and locked onto Crane with a tight hug.

* * *

  
  


Crane gave Dahlia a tour of the nature-sodden compound. Two massive wooden barns stood side by side at the front of the property, facing away from the vast orchards. Down a short dirt path sat the sizable three-story main house, and centered over that pathway was an off-white canopy tent. Behind the main dwelling were two separate guest houses, one smashed in and half exposed due to what appeared to be a felled tree. Parallel to that sat a 40-foot office trailer that, unlike the rest of the property, looked too clean to have been there long. Crane confirmed it was placed there recently to act as a security office, although still needed work before becoming operable. But once that work was complete, he said, they'd have dedicated and armed security guards day and night. For some reason, Dahlia didn't like that idea, but let the thought sit silent.

Then Crane led Dahlia to the main house. After ascending eight creaky wooden steps and crossing the porch, they reached the front door, which led to an open floor plan surrounding a roomy living area. Also on this floor were the laundry room, guest bathroom, dining room, kitchen, walk-in pantry, plus a sunroom in the back. The staircase staring down at the front door led up to the second floor landing, and from there, the main bathroom, a large utility closet, a linen closet, and two bedrooms.

Dahlia took note of the new furniture in the recently-cleaned main bedroom. "What's going to happen with your house?" She asked softly, moving to peer out the front hall window towards the barns.

"Nothing for the time being. Someone's there, laying low, to keep an eye on things."

After a moment when he didn't continue, she clarified, "I guess that means we're staying here?"

"For a short while."She heard him approach her from behind, then felt him sweep her hair away to rest a hand on her shoulder. "We're safe here. And the lab can grow here."

"... Grow into what?" The question came off more hesitant than she intended. She was inexplicably afraid to provoke him.

"I'll show you, soon." Then she felt him lean near to kiss her gently on the head.

"What about Richard Dodge ... ?" A short while earlier, she had told him the whole story ... leaving out the parts before arriving at the burned apartment of course.

"He can't find this place." The comment was made with overt confidence. He continued gently, "Get settled in. The plumbing works in the main bathroom, and it's been cleaned. You don't have to rush yourself, Dahlia. I want you to feel comfortable here."

* * *

  
  


A long, hot shower didn't fix much. It helped loosen some tightness in Dahlia's recovering body, but her head was still clear as mud. Until she could sort out her feelings, she asked Crane how she could help out around the compound. He didn't encourage landscaping, but it came up in conversation and Dahlia liked the sound of something simple right that moment. To start, removing weeds and debris, plus sweeping. Crane removed his jacket and began to roll up his sleeves, but she stopped him. She wanted this time alone, but rather emphasized how he could be of better use in another area of the compound. Fair enough, he figured. So off Dahlia went to start work on one of the barns.

The door was a bit stiff, but with a firm shove, it finally swung open. The floor was decorated with old hay and bits of other organic matter. Having grown up in the city, Dahlia classified the smell as "damp farm with a hint of swamp." Near the front doors, she immediately recognized the tall wooden perch as Nightmare's. Dahlia didn't recall seeing the crow anywhere on the compound.

A couple of good hours clearing the floor and loft of the barn did her mind well. She felt more settled and level-headed, and more prepared for some recon and discussion. And what she decided during that time was that she didn't have enough information to confidently make a move. Yes, Crane set that fire, she now believed. It was too coincidental for her father to have been poisoned with a fear-inducing toxin and caught in a sudden apartment fire. It was too coincidental that Crane and Lou didn't like each other. The idea was still painful, but fully processed now. But why did it all happen? What was the motivation? Was he so possessive? He never gave her that impression before, she didn't believe.

There was a desire to confront him, as she returned to the house. But something inside was  _ rattled  _ by the idea of confronting him.

As the front door to the main house creaked open, Crane peeked a head out from the back kitchen. "How'd you do?"

The interrogatory questions Dahlia had mentally lined up had fallen out of her head as she closed the door. "I need another shower, but 'barn one' looks halfway usable." She didn't feel ready to talk about it. She went with the flow. "And, uh, I saw ... Nightmare's perch in there? Where is she?"

With a pause and exhale, Crane answered, "I set her free."


End file.
